


anacrusis

by mmmuse



Category: Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Biting, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Finger Sucking, Food Kink, Ice Play, Light Bondage, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 14:44:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11762106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmmuse/pseuds/mmmuse
Summary: definition: a note or notes that precede the first full bar; a pickupDemelza Carne is a week away from starting her new career as a professor of music history and theory at Truro College, excited to begin a new stage in her life, devoid of the philandering ex-husband who broke her heart. And it is her heart her friend Caroline is worried about.Well, perhaps notworried. And maybe not Demelza's heart. The night of her big 3-0, Demelza spots a tall, dark-haired man who can't take his eyes off of her during a pub crawl in Newquay. Chat leads to snogs leads to a night of passion Demelza never experienced before. In the morning, he is gone and all she knows is his first name: Ross. Throughout the week, she cannot get him out of her mind. His hands, his mouth, his body, simply...him. She looks for him and finds glimpses of him in the people and things she encounters: the luxuriant black curls of her regular barista; the eyes of a black cat belonging to her neighbour. Yet, she never finds him.Until he walks into her lecture hall.A Modern Romelza AU





	1. prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Another plot bunny, courtesy of Rainpuddle13, and a balm for my post-S3 soul. Hope you are intrigued enough to follow along! The title is pronounced just as it appears: a-na-croo-sis.
> 
> Chapter title definition: A musical introduction to subsequent movements during the Baroque era (1600's/17th century). It can also be a movement in its own right, which was more common in the Romantic era (mid-1700s/18th century)

Caroline tossed the Cosmopolitan magazine onto the coffee table in her new flat. “You need a shag, Demelza.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Demelza groaned, exasperated.  Her cheeks blazed at the suggestion. They were celebrating Caroline’s move into the new, upscale, modern complex in Truro for their monthly girl’s night.

“I mean it!” Her best friend in the universe sprang to her feet. “You’ve been wallowing around in a sea of self-pity ever since the divorce. One would think you missed the philandering son of a bi---”

Demelza narrowed her eyes, and Caroline’s mouth snapped shut. “Never.”

Demelza Carne had met her ex-husband, Hugh Armitage, whilst in uni working on her undergraduate degree in music performance and history. He was two years older than her twenty-two years and heir to his uncle, George Falmouth, Lord De Dunstanville. With the face of an angel and the heart of a poet, he’d plied his talent on Demelza the first night they’d met at a party celebrating the Cambridge crew team’s win over Oxford on the Thames. Dazzled by his looks and charm, she’d relented when he’d asked for her number. They’d fallen head over heels in a matter of days, discovering shared interests in music, ballet, art and film in no time. Caroline had cautioned her about Hugh’s reputation as a partying player, to no avail. They’d married young, impetuously, hiding their intentions from their parents until it was too late, the matter a fait accompli and consummated.

From Demelza’s perspective, they’d been happy, lost in one another for five years, until she’d begun her doctoral studies in music history and theory at Truro College. To earn the Doctor of Philosophy in Music, she desired required long hours of study, working on research projects, and developing her thesis, all requiring concert and workshop performances, which had the added benefit of furthering her name, reputation and skills. Hugh, who had finished his master’s degree in business, had joined his uncle’s company, which had offices in Cornwall and London. Hugh had praised her for her commitment to her gifts and encouraged her to direct her attention to her studies. Once distracted, he’d begun to pursue his own forms of entertainment: partying, wielding his family name and connections like a seasoned politician, and womanising.

She began to hear rumours about Hugh’s philandering _and wave_ _d it off. But then, signs started to become clearer: their sex life, once vibrant, had become non-existent. He spent more and more time at the  London office “on business”. Efforts to reach him on his mobile had become difficult. Ultimately, it wasn’t until he returned for the weekend and the evidence -- the proverbial lipstick on his collar -- stared her in the face. Their confrontation later that night was epic, filled with tears, fury, and begging. “Uncle George will be furious,” Hugh said. “There’s never been a divorce in the history of the Falmouth family, Demelza. Please give me another chance, I’ll do whatever you want!” She acquiesced to a second chance, but ordered him from their master bedroom, her trust in him in tatters._

_He was contrite in the days and weeks that followed, attentive and willing to meet with a counsellor. She wondered if her hectic schedule had contributed to his need to find companionship elsewhere. She cut back on her studies, and he made a point of staying in town. The more time they spent together, the more she remembered the man she’d married, the man she still loved despite his infidelity. A month after the separation, pleased with his commitment, she let him back into her bed._

_It lasted a fortnight. Demelza was collecting the clothes to go to the dry cleaners and picked up his jumper. It smelled of jasmine perfume, and she pulled several long, inky-black hairs from its hemline. Her tears blinded her for hours._

_They made an agreement: as long as she didn’t see it or hear about it, she would stay to keep up appearances for his family. He was, unsurprisingly, ejected from her bedroom once again, any thought of intimacy with him a thing of the past._

_And yet, the second chance soon became a third chance until they were barely going through the motions. Three months into their charade, she arrived home from a performance late one night to find a note:_

 

> _Had a business meeting in town. H_

_She stumbled into her bedroom, slipped into her nightgown and collapsed in their bed, snuggling her head against her pillow, only to discover an earring under its soft comfort. The only problem was it didn’t belong to her._

_It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Not only had he waved his indiscretion in her face, he’d had the gall to do so in her bed! Devastated, Demelza packed most of her clothes before he returned to their home. He begged her not to leave him, but she swept from the house, throwing her bags in the back of her Land Rover and drove straight to Caroline’s, where her tears finally fell. She began divorce proceedings within days of the separation but knew it would take many months before she was finally free of him, for, despite the rock-solid grounds she’d had when she filed, Hugh had made it clear he intended to fight. It became much easier when Hugh and his latest conquest were splashed across the tabloids when they were caught shagging in an alleyway off Dean Street in London. Charges of public indecency inflamed his uncle, who demanded Hugh get the matter sorted at once. One year, an excellent solicitor and several court appearances later, she received the decree absolute, freeing her from her union with Hugh and awarding her their home in Cornwall as well as a very handsome financial settlement._

Yet all the money and property in the world could not heal the shattered heart that ached in her breast. She took a year-long leave from her studies, where she’d travelled throughout Europe, escaping the painful familiar to seize upon the anonymous new. It was while she was in Venice that she’d begun to find a glimmer of the joy that had been a part of her life since childhood. By the time she’d returned to Cornwall, the comforts of home and hearth, the sea and sand of her youth were all she wished for. She was ready to start again. Now, she was focused on being a success in her new role as an associate professor of music history and theory at Truro College.

“My days of self-pity are done, and you know it, Caroline,” Demelza clarified as tipped what was left of the bottle of pinot gris into her wine glass. _Should have bought two bottles,_ she thought to herself. “But the last thing I need in my life right now is some mindless hook-up.”

“I think that’s precisely what you need,” Caroline chuckled. “Darling,” her tone shifting from one of humour to deep affection, “Hugh treated you abominably, gadding about Cornwall and London, fucking everything that moved.”

“Well,” Demelza interrupted, “not everything.”

Caroline looked at her in sympathy. “All I’m saying is just because you’ve a week before you start your prestigious new job doesn’t mean you can’t get a little freaky beforehand.” She took Demelza’s hand. “Look. Your birthday is this weekend.” She paused for effect. “The big 3-0.”

“I know,” Demelza moaned. The thought of it made her stomach lurch. “I was there for it, you know.”

Caroline poked her in the side with a perfectly manicured nail. “Well, such a milestone calls for a celebration. Let’s go to Newquay for the weekend!”

“What?” Demelza blurted. Newquay was like the Vegas of Cornwall, where stag and hen nights reigned, and dodgy pubs flourished.

“I mean it,” Caroline said, whipping her mobile off the coffee table and tapped in something on the browser. “A friend of mine told me about a beautiful hotel they stayed at last month that would be perfect.” She clicked on a link and, when it finished loading, turned the screen so they both could see. The web page for the Headland Hotel splashed upon the little screen, the images lush and so very inviting. “And they have a spa…” Caroline said in a sing-song voice that trailed off into nothingness.

“A spa?” Demelza whispered. She was a sucker for a spa, and Caroline knew it. She got up, nibbling on her bottom lip and paced the room. Was there any reason not to go? Demelza had planned to lock herself in the house with some wine and Rosekilly Caramel Crunch Ice Cream to watch a marathon of Game of Thrones, but that was sounding more and more pathetic as the seconds ticked by her. When was the last time she’d done something this impetuous or spur of the moment? And then the prospect of Caroline’s suggestion snaked its way through her mind, and she bit back a moan. Her sex drive hadn’t dried up in the divorce. On the contrary, when she and Hugh had been happy, the sex had been out of this world. The truth was she’d missed it, so very much. But enough to pick up some stranger in a pub? No, that was not for her.

But the spa? Demezla stopped in the kitchen and faced her friend. “You cow,” she teased. Caroline squealed with happiness, racing to join Demelza near the stove. Demelza snatched the mobile from her friend’s hands, navigated to the spa’s section and groaned. “Alright! Alright! What are you thinking?” They booked a suite for  Thursday evening and a Friday spa day of beauty before they dined in the hotel’s two-rosette awarded restaurant. Then they would put on their pub crawling gear and go out on the town. Finally, they go back to the hotel, lie abed with their hangovers until noon and return home. “And no promises about meeting some bloke in a bar and dragging him back to my room, understood?”

Caroline’s index finger made a cross over her heart. “I promise. No pressure at all.” She arched a brow. “Even though you might find it fun.”

Demelza rolled her eyes. _Fuck it,_ she thought to herself, tossing back her wine and rooting around in Caroline’s fridge for what she knew would be there: champagne. “Let’s do it!”

 


	2. a due

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _story title definition: a note or notes that precede the first full bar; a pickup_
> 
>  
> 
> Demelza Carne is a week away from starting her new career as a professor of music history and theory at Truro College, excited to begin a new stage in her life, devoid of the philandering ex-husband who broke her heart. And it is her heart her friend Caroline is worried about.
> 
> Well, perhaps not worried. And maybe not Demelza's heart. The night of her big 3-0, Demelza spots a tall, dark-haired man who can't take his eyes off of her during a pub crawl in Newquay. Chat leads to snogs leads to a night of passion Demelza never experienced before. In the morning, he is gone and all she knows is his first name: Ross. Throughout the week, she cannot get him out of her mind. His hands, his mouth, his body, simply...him. She looks for him and finds glimpses of him in the people and things she encounters: the luxuriant black curls of her regular barista; the eyes of a black cat belonging to her neighbour. Yet, she never finds him.
> 
> Until he walks into her lecture hall.
> 
> A Modern Romelza AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Chapter title definition: intended as a duet; for two voices or instruments; together; two instruments are to play in unison after a solo passage for one of the instruments_

“Listen, Verity; I get it, I need to speak to him,” Ross interrupted impatiently into the mic of his earbuds, “but it’s not something I can do right now….not saying it won’t happen eventually, but now? No can do.” He checked both ways for traffic before he dashed across the street towards the Crescent. “I’ve got to get to the pub for Zacky’s stag do. I’m late as it is... I’ll be back at my flat Sunday afternoon. We can talk more about this mess then, alright?...Okay….Oh, thanks for booking that art gallery opening with 3C...my stomach can use the money and the leftovers...love you too. Bye.” He pressed the mic, disconnecting the call and shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. The lush sounds of Julien Lage’s guitar filled his ears with music that usually had the power to ease his mind. Tonight? Not so much.

His cousin Verity’s pleas for him to see reason about the situation with her brother Francis had been clamouring around his head for days. Ordinarily, he had no difficulty seeing things eye to eye both of his cousins, who’d always been more like siblings to him. But this predicament was asking a bit too much for him. Francis had barely waited for Ross to edge the door closed on his two-year relationship with Elizabeth Chenoweth before he’d stuck his size ten Bruno Magli into the jam. Intellectually, Ross knew he shouldn’t be bothered: the relationship had run its course long before it had ended. Still, the suddenness of Francis’s pursuit rankled.

Ross had noticed Elizabeth on their first day in an Introduction to Art History class. She was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen, with long, curling, honey-blonde hair and a figure made to wear haute couture. He’d been shocked to discover her lingering eyes on him a week into school, even more so when she’d boldly asked him out for a coffee soon after. That coffee had turned into drinks and, within days, shared breakfasts after nights of lovemaking. He suspected she’d been drawn to him because his not-entirely-undeserved reputation as a bad boy and his rough-about-the-edges looks. Distressed denim jeans, vintage concert tees, battered Doc Marten’s and old leather jackets may have been all the rage at H&M, but for Ross, they comprised the entirety of his wardrobe and had been earned the hard way. Regardless of her reasons for it, Ross had basked under her attentions and had grown to love and admire her for her charm, beauty and intellect.

Despite the love for art that had brought Ross and Elizabeth together their first year at uni, they’d begun to take decidedly different paths during their second. Music had always been an important part of his life, since his childhood. It had started to flourish while in secondary school and burst forth, fully formed, once in uni. It had captured his soul, and opportunities to play with his fellow, modern-day troubadours in small clubs around town and develop new, experimental jazz compositions had become his passion. There wasn’t much money to be had with these endeavours, which was nothing new to him, so life on a shoestring had been manageable. The new bedsit he’d rented for the upcoming school year was tiny and efficient, and he’d cared more about having a place to park his transport van than he’d been about the size or what part of town it happened to be. He augmented his income with gigs as a server with the Cornwall Catering Company -- 3C for short -- and a little under-the-table cash on moving jobs.

Elizabeth, on the other hand, had become quite well known as a style blogger while working on her design skills, with a mind to move to London, Paris or Italy to launch a career in fashion. She’d always wondered when Ross would stop screwing around with the jazz trio, to use his sharp intelligence on the business side of the music industry. He’d excelled in his intro to business courses, and he could almost, in hindsight, remember seeing a gleam in her eye at the possibilities. In the end, he couldn’t blame her for wanting the finer things in life. There’d been too many nights having cheap beer and mediocre pizza, and not enough dining out on white linen tablecloths. Or having to wait until the movie she’d wanted to see had come to the discount cinema instead of going on opening night. He thought the final straw had been when he’d brought her to his new place for the first time. He’d seen the distaste in her eyes as she’d taken in the spartan room, with its futon bed, microwave and mini-fridge. She’d stayed only the one night before the excuses had begun. In the end, he’d barely offered a token of resistance when she’d told him it was over.

Ross swore under his breath. He didn’t need all that shite rattling around in his brain tonight, not for Zacky’s big send-off.  He turned off his music, shoving the issue with Francis and Elizabeth into a dark, black corner where it belonged, and stuffed his earbuds into the inside pocket of his battered, leather motorcycle jacket. Time to joining the stream of humanity heading out on a Friday night for frivolity and escapism.

“There he is! Oi! Poldark!”

Ross turned at the sound of his last name, peering around the crowds meandering along The Crescent until he saw his three best mates standing near the entrance to the pub. “Sorry, lads!” Ross shouted, jogging over to join them.

Dwight gave him a light punch on the arm. “We’ve been here twenty minutes, you arse! What kept you?”

“Got a call from Verity and lost track of time,” he responded, exchanging back-pounding man hugs with his friends. He smiled at the groom-to-be. “You sure about this, Martin?” he asked the tall, thin man standing to his right.

“About the wedding? Absolutely,” Zacky vowed. The oldest and most responsible member of their crowd, Zacky and his long-time girlfriend Polly Daniel, were tying the knot the next evening. And just in time, too: their first child was due in about a month. “About what you lot have in store for me tonight?” Ross and Dwight laughed. “Now, promise me you won’t get me so pissed I’ll miss my wedding?”

The guffaws and knowing winks grew exponentially. “Don’t mind these two, Zacky,” Paul Daniel, best man and the bride-to-be’s brother cautioned, glancing at Dwight and Ross. “Polly would have my bollocks if you were late.”

“True,” Dwight agreed.

“We’ll make sure you’re vertical, showered, shaved, and dressed with plenty of time,” Ross promised.

Dwight held up his hands. “Alright, since we’re all finally here at last,” he pointed out with a sideways glance at Ross, “shall we proceed, gentlemen?” The four lads moved towards the door.

Ross had been to On The Rocks several times and considered it to be his favourite pub in all of Cornwall. Grungy, the floor sticky with spilt beer, old band posters lining the walls. He’d played on the little stage at the far end of the club a few times with two of the guys he’d met in his first-year music analysis course. He’d also sat in with some mates from secondary in their Pearl Jam cover band, revelling in finding his inner Stone Gossard. He’d fit right in with the vibe that night, his long, black hair whipping around his head as he’d nodded in time with the music. His gnarly tank revealed the half sleeve tattoo of Celtic and Viking tribal art he’d had finished the week before an inky black against his olive skin, a flannel shirt knotted low on his narrow waist. He’d eased up on the homage to Seattle’s music scene in honour of Zacky’s big night, swapping the tank for a clean, white t-shirt and a new-old pair of jeans he’d picked up at the thrift shop that very day. He’d corralled most of his wayward locks in a man bun, leaving a mass of tendrils at his nape.

Tonight’s band was tight, playing a mix of ‘90s classics that had people crowding the dance floor one song after another. Ross caught some of the pretty sophisticated melodic structures the gents infused in the cover tunes. His mind raced with ideas for how a theme could be deconstructed and reborn into something new, yet familiar. He’d been able to do this since childhood, the tunes and compositions occasionally being the only companionship he’d had when times had been hard at home.

“Hey, how’s about you two grab us four beers,” Paul shouted, shaking Ross from his thoughts and stuffing some bills in his hand. “Zack and I’ll grab that open table before someone else does.”

“Got it,” Ross responded, tugging at Dwight. As ratty as the pub was, they featured fantastic, local beer. Ten minutes later, he and Dwight were turning from the bar with four St Austell Korev lagers when Ross froze. “Jesus.”

“What?” Dwight asked, nudging Ross forward, but he held his ground. “What is--oh!” Ross couldn’t take his eyes off of the woman who stood no more than twenty feet from him. Tall and willowy, with the most beautiful red hair he’d ever seen before. It was piled high on her head in a messy bun, a long, curling tendril trailing down her graceful neck. She wore skinny jeans and stiletto sandals that did miraculous things for her legs and a blue-green, sleeveless top that looked silky to the touch. Her face, though. Her smile as bright as the sun, and wide eyes the colour of Hendrawna Cove, long lashed and brilliant with happiness as she threw back her head with laughter at something her friend had said. He simply could not take his eyes off of her.

Dwight whistled low. “I hope it’s the redhead you’re gawping at because if it’s the blonde, we might require pistols at dawn.” He nudged Ross along towards the table. Ross felt as if his feet were stuck in concrete. “Look, ” Dwight cautioned, “you’re not thinking what I _think_ you’re thinking, are you?”

“What?” Ross whispered distractedly.

“C’mon, mate,” Dwight urged, “Paul and Zacky are waiting!”

“Here.” Ross turned, shoving the two beers he was holding at his friend.

“Oh, no you don’t, Poldark,” Dwight protested, doing his best not to spill the lager down his chest. “We’re here for Zacky’s stag do! How’s he going to feel if you go off on a bird hunt tonight?”

“Hopefully cheering me on!” Ross exclaimed, straightening his sleeves. “Seriously, I’m just going to ask her to dance, maybe have a drink and, hopefully, get her number. I won’t be more than five minutes. I promise.”

“No, you won’t,” Dwight chorused in a sing-song voice.

“Why not?” Ross frowned.

“Because I do believe she’s noticed you,” Dwight grinned, arching a brow over Ross’s shoulder, “and she looks like she wants to take a bite out of you.”

Ross whirled to find the redhead staring in his direction.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“No more for me!” Demelza declared, her hand covering her champagne glass on the tiny table she and Caroline had snared the minute they’d arrived at the pub. The buzz from the alcohol had done a number on her head, and she needed to clear it before she did something stupid.

“Alright, we’ll take a wee break in the action,” Caroline agreed, her eyes scanning the room. “You know, I can’t believe we’ve been to four places so far, and you’ve yet to find someone who tickles your fancy.”

Demelza wrinkled her nose. It was indeed the fourth establishment they’d visited during what was quickly becoming the first full fledged pub crawl she’d been on for over ten years. Each had been seedier than the last, with On The Rocks taking the prize for grit and grunge. “At least the band is decent here,” she shouted as they blasted into Alice in Chains “Man in a Box”. “And I told you, I was making no promises to...what did you call it?”

“Get your freak on,” Caroline leered, waggling her eyebrows.

Demelza rolled her eyes. “Yeah. That.” There’d been a rather bookish gentleman who’d earned a second glance at the first place they went to, but there had been nothing that had made her skin tingle or her heart race. If she were to consider “getting her freak on” with a strange man she’d barely knew, it had better be someone who set off fireworks of unbridled lust in her bloodstream. _A very tall order,_ she thought to herself.

“You said that if you did see someone who made your toes curl you would chat him up, at the very least, agreed?” Caroline reminded her.

“Yes, yes, agreed,” Demelza muttered. She was in the process of settling her chin on her hand when she saw him. A sizzle raced along her spine, straightening her posture in seconds. He stood with a group of men, one of whom was wearing a t-shirt that read “Groom”. He was tall, quite tall, she noticed, with black hair tied back like Kit Harrington wore it on Game of Thrones, one of her guilty pleasures. Gorgeous eyes under strong, expressive brows, and a smile that would make an angel sin. Well built, if the breadth of his shoulders, long torso and legs were any indication. He reached to dig his wallet from his back pocket and…

“Damn,” she murmured. An arse like that should be illegal.

“What did you say?” Caroline asked. Demelza couldn’t speak, merely pointed in the direction of the man who’d caused her to forget how to use words. “Oh, my,” her friend sighed. “Oh, heavens, he _is_ a magnificent specimen indeed.” Caroline returned her gaze to Demelza. “You may want to close your mouth, my dear.”

Demelza’s teeth snapped shut, heat rushing to her face. She covered her cheeks with her hands. “Good God, Caroline, he’s beautiful.” She snuck another glance, her eyes meeting his, making her stomach swoop as if she were on a roller coaster. “But he looks like he’s barely out of secondary!”

“Oh, that’s ridiculous,” Caroline trilled, flapping a hand. “I’d say he’s in his early twenties, which is a reasonable assumption to make, especially if you look at the friends he’s with, Demelza.” She arched a brow. “You should go over.”

Demelza’s mouth fell open. “I cannot do that!”

“Why not?” Caroline countered. “Check out your toes, woman.”

Demelza didn’t have to. Her toes were curled up in her stiletto sandals. “Oh, God.”

Caroline touched Demelza’s hand, squeezed it. “I’m willing to bet if you went over and talked to him, he’d be so flattered you wouldn’t have to pay for another drink for the rest of the night! Besides, I’m proposing you chat with him, not jump his bones on the spot.” She paused, a wicked grin lighting up her beautiful face. “Although that _would_ be very entertaining.”

Demelza laughed. The comment broke some of the tension that had tied her stomach into knots. And Caroline was right: a conversation with a handsome young man wouldn’t kill her. Demelza picked up the bottle of champagne, poured herself a healthy swallow and downed it in one, the bubbles making her nose itch. “Alright, I’ll do it.”

Caroline emptied the bottle into her flute. “I don’t think you’re going to have to.”

“Why not?” Demelza asked.

Her friend glanced over Demelza’s shoulder. “He’s coming over to you.”

Down and around another curve of the coaster, her head spinning from excitement and daring. She took a deep breath and turned to find him standing a foot away from her. “Hello.” The rich baritone of his voice was making her skin hum. “I’m Ross.”

“I’m Demelza,” she demurred, her voice barely above a whisper. She was almost eye to eye with him, courtesy of her shoes. So deliciously tall.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he grinned, offering her his hand. His palm was warm and dry when she shook it. He didn’t let go. She didn’t mind it at all. “Can I buy you a drink?”

She nodded. “I’ll go with you.” Demelza and Caroline had talked about this before they’d headed out to dinner. One couldn’t be too careful, and the last thing she needed was to be roofied. He offered her his arm -- such a nice, old fashioned gesture -- and she slipped her hand in the crook of his elbow.

They wove their way through the crowd. She had a chance to observe his profile, with sharp cheekbones and jawline, the epitome of masculinity, the stubble from his beard dark and it made her fingertips itch to touch it. She shook herself out of her musings when they reached the bar. “What will you have, Demelza?” he asked.

“Champagne,” she offered.

He nodded. “Champagne and a lager, Eric,” he ordered. The bartender nodded and got to work filling their order. “Are you celebrating something?” he asked, his eyes flickering down towards her hand.

Her left hand, to be precise. Her thumb reflexively reached to stroke the spot where her wedding rings had been. “Oh, um, it’s my birthday today,” she acknowledged quickly.

He smiled. _Lord, help her._ It was glorious to see it light up his face. “Happy birthday!” he exclaimed. “Is it your twenty-first, perhaps?”

She laughed, charmed. “You flatterer,” she cooed. “How about you? What brings you out tonight?”

“Stag do for one of my mates,” he answered. “Just getting started. You?”

He leaned against the bar, his arm resting on the glossy mahogany surface mere inches from her waist. “We’ve been to a few places already,” she admitted, hoping it wasn’t readily apparent.

The bartender returned with their drinks. “Eight pounds, mate.” Ross nodded, digging in his front pocket. Several coins clinked onto the bar, followed by several crumpled notes. “Cheers.”

Ross handed her her glass, his cheeks colouring for a moment. She cursed herself: the sparkling wine had been three times as expensive as his beer. “I’m sorry,” she apologised. “Champagne is the only thing I’ve had tonight, and I didn’t want to mix it with something else.” She looked down at her hands. “I’m not out to fleece you or anything, I promise.

He blinked. “Oh, the cost? Don’t worry, I understand,” he assured her, his hand touching her upper arm. It made her pulse jump. He raised his beer with his other hand. “Happy birthday, Demelza.” They toasted, sipping their beverages.

“So, are you from around here?” she asked and then winced. “God, how cliche is that?”

He laughed. “I live up in Truro,” he answered, “we all do, my mates and me. There are some spots to go to for stags there, but Newquay is the best. How about you?”

“Truro, too, but just outside,” she admitted vaguely. _Ten miles from Truro, actually, on a forty acre estate dating back to the seventeenth century._ But that was unimportant. What were the chances the one man who’d made her consider Caroline’s insane proposal would live in the same city? If she were to go back to her hotel and have crazed, monkey sex with him, what were the chances of running into him back home? _Too_ good, she reckoned. Good lord, was she out of her mind? “I just figured you were from here,” she continued, gesturing towards the bartender. “You called him by name.”

“Oh, that,” he acknowledged. “I’ve come here to perform a few times.”

“Perform?” Her ears perked up. “You’re a musician?” _OOooooh..._ She bet he played the guitar, suddenly picturing him on stage, hair flying wildly, his foot propped up on the monitor. Yum.

“Yeah, guitar mostly, but I can make my way around a piano, too,” he conceded, smiling.

“Same,” she marvelled. “I mean I play the piano.”

“Really? That’s cool!” he grinned. “I get calls from bands when they need someone to sit in now and then. This one’s pretty decent, isn’t it?” They chatted a bit more about the music they liked when he paused a moment before setting his beer down as the band launched into “Evenflow”. “I love Pearl Jam.”

“Same,” she agreed, watching him as he admired the guitarist on stage, nodding his head to the beat.

“Want to dance?” She blinked in surprise and nodded, grinning when he took her hand and led her into the crowd. He had an effortless grace as they moved around the dance floor. Demelza hadn’t been dancing in years, not since the early days of her marriage to Hugh. It was something she’d enjoyed, but he’d never seemed to have time to take her out for an evening of dinner and dancing. _Too busy fucking around,_ she thought to herself, a cloud shadowing her night. A second later, she felt Ross’s touch on her shoulder, and she raised her eyes. “You okay?” he mouthed.

She nodded, casting her thoughts of the past back where they belonged, to enjoy the present, to this young, handsome man paying her the attention she hadn’t known she’d missed. She smiled, shimmying in time with the music, actually enjoying herself for the first time in years. Moments later, she raised her arms, clapping along with the rest of the folks on the dance floor as the song came to a close, smiling broadly at Ross.

The band slid into “Iris”, bringing the tempo down several notches. “Shall we stay?” he asked, offering her his hand. She swallowed, her heart in her throat, and nodded.

The grace she’d noticed earlier was magnified tenfold when he took her into his arms. He was more muscular than she’d thought, his body taut with a coiled power that made heat curl low in her belly. He was warm, smelling of leather, soap, and something undeniably masculine that made her shiver. He pulled her closer, leaving no distance between them, pressed chest to thigh as his hands slid to the small of her back.

> And all I can taste is this moment  
>  _And all I can breathe is your life  
>  _ _And sooner or later it's over  
>  _ I just don't wanna miss you tonight

The words of the song, made real as his breath brushed so soft against her cheek. The rasp of his stubble made her head swim at the thought of it between her breasts, her thighs, sensations she’d not experienced in so very long. Heat pooled between her legs, pulsing in time with the blood that coursed faster and faster through her veins. She had no doubt he would have consented if asked, the hard length of his arousal pressed deliciously against her lower abdomen, the way he purred low in his throat when her fingers slid into the hair at his nape.

All too soon, the song came to an end and the band whipped into another fast paced song. They stopped moving, slowing easing apart. She noticed his pulse beat heavy in his throat and, as she continued her gaze up to his eyes she saw they’d darkened and glittered in the pulsing lights. “T-thank you, Ross,” she managed, her voice sounding faint and low.

He swallowed, nodding. “Thank you, Demelza,” he murmured. He nodded in the direction of his friends. “Listen, I should probably get back to the party, else they’ll think I’ve abandoned them.” They both laughed, dry, humourless little chuckles betraying their true inclinations. “Maybe another dance later?”

“Yes, I’d like that.” The words burst forth, more quickly than she’d intended. She wished for the earth to swallow her whole.

Ross grinned at her eagerness, his face boyish and even more desirable. “I’ll see you.” They parted, and she made her way back to Caroline on legs that felt like overcooked linguini.

“Well, well, well,” Caroline crooned smugly, “ _that_ looked like a right bit of fun!” Demelza blinked owlishly, all but shell shocked. “Was it as good as it seemed to be from here?”

“Uh, yes,” Demelza sighed. Her head swam, but it had nothing to do with the champagne. She cast a glance up to the booth where Ross and his friends sat, a hen party having joined them for what appeared to be a raucous good time. He looked her way, just at that moment, his eyes intense, a small smile on his lips, a shrug lifting his shoulders. She felt her cheeks flame.

“Alright, that blush is speaking volumes, woman,” Caroline observed. “Spill.” Demelza took a deep breath -- as well as another glass of bubbly -- and told her friend what she’d discovered about Ross. But when she got to their slow dance, she paused. It had felt very intimate, their time together under the low lights of the club. If nothing else happened that night, she wanted to keep something private, just to herself.

“It was a delicious dance, Caroline,” she breathed, a smile curling her lips. “I’d have another if he asked.”

Caroline clapped several times. “So is he a candidate?”

Demelza narrowed her eyes. “Don’t go there,” she said playfully. A couple of hours passed, and she and Caroline were treated to more drinks and dances from several of the guys swarming around the bar. All the while, Demelza kept a watch out for Ross. It looked like he and his friends were having a smashing time, and she’d seen him flirt a bit with some of the girls from the hen party. But more often than not, she’d catch him looking at her, his eyes lingering longer than they did any other woman.

It was getting late, and Demelza noticed her left shoe was beginning to pinch her toes as she danced with Brian, a guy who looked to be around her age but did absolutely nothing to her pulse. “Want another go?” he asked as the song ended, and the band eased into another slow one.

“Thanks, but n--” she started to decline, pausing at the tap on her shoulder. She turned to find Ross standing behind her, grinning.

“Can I cut in?” he stated more than asked, taking her hand in his.

She thought her heart would hammer through her chest. “I’d like that.” She smiled at Brian. “Thanks.”

The minute they touched was magnetic, his arms pulling her flush against his body. They swayed and spun to the music, his hands growing more adventurous as they ran up to her shoulders and back down to her hips. He’d left his jacket at the booth, so she ran one hand over his chest. His heart pounded beneath her palm, and she whimpered with need.

He sighed brokenly in her ear, covering her hand with his. He stopped, searching her eyes. “Come with me.” He linked his fingers with hers and pulled her along behind him, weaving through the other couples on the floor until they stood in a dark alcove in the hall a few feet away from the loo. He cupped her face in his hands. “I’ve been dying to do this all night,” he whispered, bringing his mouth down onto hers.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't kill me.


	3. accelerando

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _definition: a note or notes that precede the first full bar; a pickup ___
> 
> __Demelza Carne is a week away from starting her new career as a professor of music history and theory at Truro College, excited to begin a new stage in her life, devoid of the philandering ex-husband who broke her heart. And it is her heart her friend Caroline is worried about._ _
> 
> __Well, perhaps not worried. And maybe not Demelza's heart. The night of her big 3-0, Demelza spots a tall, dark-haired man who can't take his eyes off of her during a pub crawl in Newquay. Chat leads to snogs leads to a night of passion Demelza never experienced before. In the morning, he is gone and all she knows is his first name: Ross. Throughout the week, she cannot get him out of her mind. His hands, his mouth, his body, simply...him. She looks for him and finds glimpses of him in the people and things she encounters: the luxuriant black curls of her regular barista; the eyes of a black cat belonging to her neighbour. Yet, she never finds him._ _
> 
> __Until he walks into her lecture hall._ _
> 
> __A Modern Romelza AU_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter definition: Accelerating; gradually increasing the tempo
> 
> Remember, people. This is EXPLICIT. Don't blame me if you get offended... I warned you!

She stumbled, unprepared for the storm his kiss set off within her, momentum carrying them back against the wall, hard enough for their teeth to click. “Oh,” she gasped against his lips.

“Did I hurt you?” he said, apologetic as his hands drifting down her arms to her waist. She shook her head. His fingers tightened. “Do you want me to stop?”

His voice, its pitch lower than before, did unholy things to her breath, her tits, her pussy. “Don’t you dare.” He grinned, taking her mouth with his once more, his tongue seeking hers, making her moan. How long, how long had it been since she’d been kissed this passionately, with this wild, untamed hunger? She had no clue and refused to allow the pondering to interfere with what was happening now, with him. This man she barely knew, didn’t even know his last name, had her pinned against the wall in a hallway next to the loos and she didn’t give a good goddamn.

He would be hers tonight.

His mouth left hers, scorching a trail along her cheek to the underside of her jaw nearest her ear. “This is crazy.”

“Do you want to stop?” she asked, her nails sinking into his biceps. His absofuckinglutely gorgeous biceps.

“I want you so fucking much,” he hissed. He leaned back, his eyes blazing. “From the minute I first saw you.”

“Ross,” she whispered when his mouth claimed her neck. Her fingers slid into the loose curls at his nape, holding on for dear life as he tasted the column of her throat. “Feel so good.” The rasp of his cheek against her skin threatened to turn her brain into mush. “Been so long.”

“How is that possible?” he croaked, capturing her lips with his once more, heads bobbing in response to their seeking mouths. Her hands drifted down his chest, so broad and muscular, the tight t-shirt leaving very little to her imagination. He shuddered when her thumbs traced around his nipples. One of his hands left her waist and captured her breast.

“Oh, God.” Her breath caught, involuntary shivers coursing through her as his fingers kneaded her flesh. So different when it’s a hand that’s not your own. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t, babe,” he crooned, rolling the hard peak between his thumb and forefinger. “Like that?”

“Harder,” she whispered, wincing at the lance of pain that sped to her core. “Again.” He did as she asked and her fingers tightened on his hair. She delighted in the gasp that came from his mouth before he returned to her throat, teeth, and tongue racing along her neck. “I want you to strip me, taste me,” she groaned. She was mad, mad with lust and need and want, and she would take what she could from this handsome, young man. He lifted his head to meet her eyes. “I’m going to fuck you, Ross.”

“Jesus,” he moaned, “are you for real?”

“Indeed I am, and very, very hungry.” Her hands dragged his head down for another kiss, their tongues twining, and tasting. His hand left her breast to join the other in squeezing her arse, pulling her against him. Against the cock straining against the buttons of his jeans. The feel of his against her mound was exquisite, the pressure he exerted with each thrust snaked along the border between pain and pleasure.

“I could fuck you here and now,” she growled.

“If it were safe, I’d let you,” he rasped. Demelza ground her hips against him, thrilling as he bared his teeth and growled.

He pressed closer, wedging one of his thighs between hers, thick and muscular against her crotch. “Yes, just like that,” she purred. His hands gripped her arse, lifting, hauling her tight and she moaned, riding him, grinding her aching center against his leg with abandon.

A wolf whistle sounded mere feet from where they stood, dry-humping against the graffitied wall. “Get a room!” They pulled apart long enough to see the wiry drummer from the band grinning and giving them a thumb’s up before he pushed open the door to the loo. A twinge of embarrassment threatened to swamp her, to undercut the abandon she’d been delighting in, only seconds ago. She shifted her gaze to his, the hazel eyes that she’d found so compelling a dark, forest green, his beautiful, hard body pressed against hers.

He would be hers tonight. “Is there a back way out of here?” A thrill of excitement surged through her as the words passed her lips, despite the fact her heart all but pounded in her throat.

He started. “There is, but...what about your friend...my crew?” He stopped, cupped her cheek. “Are you serious?”

_ In for a penny.  _ “Yes.”

“Oh my fucking God.” He trembled in her arms before giving her quick, biting kiss. “Did you leave anything out there that you need?”

She shook her head. “I’ve my mobile and my room key. I’m ready to go.” His hands squeezed her arse again as his mouth found hers, the kiss no longer desperate, but lush, longing, a prelude to what she hoped was to come. “You?” she asked, rubbing the tip of her nose against his, delighting in the rumbling purr that teased her ears.

“My jacket, but they’ll take care of it,” he murmured, nipping along her jaw. A nibbler, she thought to herself, arching her neck, offering without words. He claimed her throat again, this time making his way all the way down to the skin between her neck and shoulder. “Smell so good.”

“So do you,” she said, breathing in the scent of leather, soap, a touch of some unknown cologne, of sweat. Of man. She shuddered as his teeth closed on her flesh, his tongue coming out to soothe the bite. “Let’s get out of here. Now.”

He eased back, clasping her hand. “This way.”

They dashed towards a door marked “Emergency Exit: Alarm Will Sound.” Demelza skidded to a stop. “Wait, we can’t use this!”

“Doesn’t work!” he laughed, his other hand pushing the handle. Sure enough, the wailing announcement of her impetuous decision never came. “Bands step out here to light up a spliff during breaks.”

The door opened into a darkened alley that smelled nauseatingly like urine and puke. “Judas,” she gagged, covering her nose.

“Sorry, it’s a bit rank, but we’ll be on the pavement in five seconds.” He picked her up as if she were made of fairy dust, making her squeal with shock and delight. “Can’t ruin those lovely shoes.” She slipped her arms around his neck as he made his way towards the streetlight on the corner. True to his word, they soon stood on the sidewalk, where hoards of people wandered about, the refreshing air coming up from sea settling her stomach. He set her down, somewhat reluctantly, it seemed. She captured his face in her hands and kissed him. 

She would never, ever tire of kissing this man, the full lips that nipped and caressed hers with such enthusiasm. She touched the corded steel of his arms. She couldn’t wait to see how far the tattoo that peeked out from under the t-shirt went. To his shoulder? Onto his chest? She moved her hands to his waist, feeling the muscles of his back for the first time and moaned into his mouth.

“Demelza,” he croaked, voice strained. “I need you so much I can barely breathe.” She nodded in full agreement. “I've got a vehicle, but I’ve had enough to drink to make driving a hazard.” She kissed his neck, moving her way up to nip his earlobe. “That, and I’m so turned on I can’t see straight.”

She laughed, reaching for her mobile. “That’s why God made Uber.” He grinned, wrapping his arms around her as she opened the app and ordered the car. “Three minutes.”

“Wonder what we should do until then?” he smirked, eyes dark and glittering under the streetlight. Demelza pulled his head down to hers, finding the elastic in his hair and pulled it free. She smiled against his lips as he moaned and shuddered when she ran her nails along his scalp. She fisted her hands in the cascade of wild, black curls. “Fuck, that’s good,” he rasped.

“You like that?” Her voice was husky, her body humming with want.

He nodded, grinding his hips against her, his cock like granite against her mound. “Can’t you tell?”

“So do I,” she chuckled, throatily. “Pulling hair. Giving.” She gave his hair another gentle yank, drawing his head back and exposing his muscular throat for her to taste once more. “And receiving,” she stated, releasing his curls. His eyes darkened. “Promise me.”

“Yes,” he said thickly. “I-I promise.”

He leaned in to kiss her just as the black Audi pulled up. “To be continued,” she grinned,

He held out his hand. “After you.”

Demelza slid along the leather bench seat, Ross following close behind. “Headland Hotel, please,” she said, noticing the shocked look on his face out of the corner of her eye. The driver pulled away from the curb. “Have you ever been?”

“Me?” he scoffed. “No, not as a guest. I did a catering event there about six months ago.” She nodded, suddenly feeling reticent.  _ Do I ask him what he does for a living? How bizarre would that be? How does one go from raw carnality to small talk in mere seconds?  _ “It kind of feels like we’ve hit pause on a show, doesn’t it?” she offered. He frowned, and she captured his hand with hers. She blushed, shifting on the seat. “You know, mad snogging in a grimy hallway one minute to calmly sitting in the back of a car the next.”

“A pause in the action, I get it,” he said in that rumbling baritone that raised gooseflesh on her arms, drawing circles on her palm with his thumb. She shifted against the seat, this simple caress sending heat and promise to her core. The seam of her jeans rubbed against her clit, and she bit back a moan. “You could tell me what you want me to do to you when we get to your room.”

“Mmmmm,” she hummed, a bolt of need running through her. She loved dirty talk during sex. It was one of the things Hugh had taught her in the early days of their marriage, something that would always amp up the desire, stoke the fires of anticipation within her. It was also one of the first things that had gone by the wayside as their intimacies trickled to an end.The prospect of showering this young man with words so earthy and profane made her press her knees together. He noticed and grinned, wedging his right hand between them. She met his gaze and lowered her voice. “You mean besides fuck me until I scream?” His fingers tightened on reflex and began to inch their way along the inside of her thigh. “I want to you use that gorgeous mouth of yours all over me. Your lips, your teeth and your wicked tongue on my tits.” She cast a quick glance at the driver, who was miraculously keeping his eyes on the road, tugged the hem of her tank top from her waistband with her free hand, then reached under the garment to cup and squeeze her breast, her fingers pinching and rolling her nipple.

“Holy fucking shit,” Ross swore eloquently, his eyes transfixed on the motions her hand made under the silky material. She took her other hand and slipped it between her legs to rub against the flesh that wept for more.

“Shit...shit…” he whispered, his hand leaving her legs to press against the outline of his cock, straining against his jeans. She groaned, grinding her hips against her fingers. She could picture him jacking off for her, that wide hand gripping and stroking his dick. The image made her wish for him to do it right now. She was not surprised her stroking fingers were damp. The thong she wore had done nothing to stop her juices from seeping through the denim. “So hot, Demelza,” he groaned. “So fucking hot.”

She leaned close to finish. “I want you to use your mouth on my pussy, Ross,” she whispered. “To lick me and suck me, to fuck me with your tongue while I grind on your face and come down your throat.”

He took her mouth with his, swallowing the moans that exploded from both their throats. “I wish I were wearing a little, short skirt instead of these jeans,” she said against his mouth between kisses. “I would slip my finger under the soaking wet panel of my thong and stroke my slick, swollen clit.” She rocked her hips against the pressure of her hand, working the seam against the bundle of nerves that had become the center of her universe, her breath coming in pants. “I’d come right here in the back of this car, with the driver watching us, and when I finished, you’d lick my fingers clean.” She leaned close, easing her hand from her crotch, lifted her index finger to his lips.

He took it in his mouth, swirling his tongue around. “You taste so good,” he groaned when he released it, moving his head so he might capture the rest of her damp fingers. She smiled, shaking her head and moving her hand out of his reach. “Or maybe,” she crooned, “I’d do it myself.”

“Oh, G-God,” he stuttered as she licked and sucked the digit, taking it up to her knuckle. He groaned, rubbing his palm against his dick as he watched her fellate her finger through hooded eyes.

She slowly withdrew her finger and looked down, her eyes tracing the outline of his cock in his jeans before she repeated the gesture with her nail. “I want to suck you off, Ross,” she said. “If we had a partition in this car, I’d unbutton your jeans, stroking and licking and sucking your thick, juicy cock until you came.”

His head tipped back against the headrest, his hand pressed against his dick. “Jesus Christ, are we there yet?”

She glanced out the window to see them approaching the circular drive of the hotel. “Why yes,” she purred, “we are.” His head snapped up from the headrest and then turned to face her. “What do you want to do to me, Ross?” she asked.

He cupped her cheek. “Anything and everything you’ll let me do.”

“Come with me.”

~*~*~*~*

This _can't be happening,_ Ross thought to himself _._ It was as if he had stepped into one of those Penthouse Forum letters, the ones where an older woman takes a younger man and does  hot, crazythings to him that change him forever. And yet, there he was, walking dazedly through the opulent registration area of the Headland with Demelza close against his side. The dark wood paneling was polished to a mirror shine, the heels of their shoes sounding on the parquet floor. If someone had told him when he’d got up that morning that he’d be walking hand-in-hand into the Headland Hotel with the most smoking hot redhead he’d ever seen -- a woman he’d met only hours earlier -- on his way to what he hoped would be the most mind blowing sex of his life? He’d have asked to have whatever they were having. And yet, here he was, mere feet away from the elevator that would take them to her room.

She pressed the button and turned to face him. “Nervous?” she asked, lifting a hand to stroke his chest.

“Y-Yes, I mean n-no,” he stammered. His nipple tightened, pressed against the t-shirt.

She cocked her head. “You are, or you aren’t?”

“I think I’m trying to pace myself,” he said, the desire for her all but blocking out what reason he had left. He didn’t think his dick had ever been this hard. He’d thanked Christ that he’d not come in his fucking jeans when she drew her nails across it.

Well, perhaps not Christ, but whatever. The door slid open. She grabbed his hand, pulling him inside. “Think you can keep your hands off me when the doors close?” she teased.

He arched an eyebrow. “You don’t think I can, can you?” She shook her head. “Challenge accepted,” he said as the doors whispered shut.

Smooth jazz filled the compartment, a fancy, mirrored affair he imagined once had had an attendant back in the day. He wished there’d been someone else in the elevator with them because as cocky as he’d been accepting her dare, Ross wasn’t convinced he could do so. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “What do I get if I win?”

Her smile took on a feline quality. “A little bondage, perhaps?”  _ Jesus fuck.  _ “Nothing too mad, of course. But the bed is a four poster.” She ran her hands over her breasts, their perfect nipples tenting her shirt simply begging to be kissed. “It would be a shame to waste it.”

He looked up at the number of the floors they had to go before reaching the seventh floor and threw in the towel, taking two steps across to pin her against the wall of the elevator, kissing her savagely, his hands cupping both her breasts. They filled his greedy palms as he squeezed them. “Gotta taste,” he groaned, ducking his head down to capture her nipple through the silk top she wore, her hands threading through his hair while he sucked, licked and bit.

“I could come just from this, Ross,” she breathed, her body shuddering in his arms. “I have before. Can you make me come now?”

It wasn’t as if he was inexperienced. He’d only been with three women in his life, was fairly sure he’d been a decent lover to all of them, but he had no idea how to accomplish this. His sex life with Elizabeth had been good, but it was nothing compared to the fire and passion he’d experience so far this night. He did what came instinctively, what he wanted, drawing the tank top up until her breasts were exposed. Full and fair, the most beautiful breasts he’d ever seen. Her nipples were dark rose-pink, perfect, uptilted, and within inches of his mouth. He took one between his lips, sucking hard, soothing with strokes of his tongue.

“Yes...Oh, yes...just like that, “ she moaned, circling his waist with her legs. He pinched the other nipple with his fingers, and she shuddered. “God...oh, GodGodGod,” she wept. A rosy flush swept up the slopes of her breasts to her chest. Her hips flexed against his chest, and the need to bury himself inside her blistered his veins. He squeezed her arse, his teeth grazing her nipple and she shattered, back arching as she quaked in his arms. Cries of pleasure sang from her throat, and he watched her face as her orgasm rolled through her. He’d never seen anything as stunning before in his life.

“Ross,” she sighed, relaxing her legs until she stood shakily on her cute stilettoed feet.

He wrapped his arms around her. “So beautiful,” he whispered, kissing her face and neck before he knelt before her. Her skin was so sweet, the scent of her perfume, warm and seductive as he nuzzled his way down her belly. He tongued her navel, kissing her lower belly, exposed by the low rise of her jeans, the black strap from her thong revealed circling her left hip. He rubbed his face against her, knowing what he sought so desperately lay shielded by a thin layer of denim. He reached for the button just as the bell from the elevator chimed.

The doors slid open. “I think I win,” Demelza purred breathlessly.

He groaned, pressing his forehead against her belly. Her fingers brushed his cheeks, tilting his chin up to meet his gaze. “What a way to lose.” he rasped, getting to his feet. “You are beautiful when you come.”

“I could watch you suck my nipples all night,” she murmured. She smiled, her sea-blue eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Let’s go see what kind of mischief we can get ourselves into.”

She took his hand, leading him down the hall towards room seven-twelve, its plush carpet muffling their foot falls. He watched the room numbers advance, his breath growing more shallow with each passing door until he was near panting with need. Finally, there it was. Who knew what would happen in that room? He came to an abrupt halt. “Demelza,” he blurted.

She turned, her brows furrowed with concern. “What is it?” she asked.  “Are you having second thoughts?”

“No!” he exclaimed, “God, no.” He felt his cheeks warm with embarrassment. “I’m just…” He paused. “I’ve never been this turned on before. And, well, I’m worried I won’t---”

She pressed her fingers to his lips. “Trust me, Ross. Okay?” He nodded, and she smiled, brushing her thumb across his lips before she kissed him. “There’s only one more thing to discuss before we go inside.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve not been with a man in over three years, Ross, and I know my status is clear. It may be cruel of me to ask this now, but I need to know about you.”

He blinked. “Well, it’s been two months since I was with someone, my ex, and we’d been monogamous for two years. I tested clear two weeks ago.”

She smiled. “Thank you for that." She reached into her back pocket and removed her card key. “Last chance.” He nodded. A quick swipe of the card and she opened the door.

The room was airy, in cool blues and creams, with a sitting area, what looked like an opulent en suite and a large, four poster, as promised. Ross barely had the chance to see more before she was in his arms, kissing him with abandon. She’d slipped off her sandals without him even noticing, and the height difference was striking. Perfect, in fact. They kissed, dancing across the floor, to where he had no idea until the back of his legs struck something.

He looked over his shoulder, noticing a plush armchair behind him. “Take off your shirt,” Demelza said softly. He reached behind him, hauling the shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor. She sighed, her tongue licking her bottom lip. “I wondered what the rest of your tattoo looked like.” Her fingers traced the curve where it started on his upper shoulder, stroking down to where it ended at his elbow. She spread her palms across his upper chest, stroking him like a cat. “So glad you aren’t one of those men who manscapes himself to pre-pubescence.” He laughed, a reedy sound, but one that eased some of the rampaging desire coursing through his veins and down to his cock. She flicked her eyes up to his, a wicked grin on her mouth as she ran her fingers down his chest, teasing the trail of black hair that disappeared behind his waistband. “I’ve been dying to get a peek of what you’ve got hiding in there, Ross.” She dipped her fingers under the elastic band circling his boxer briefs, her smooth nails easing along the skin of his lower abdomen.

She reached for his fly, and he shot out a hand to stop her. “Demelza, please,” he begged, “let me.” He’d never last if she did this for him now. She nodded, putting her hands behind her back. His fingers were clumsy when he slipped the buttons free, but he let out a groan of relief as the placket fell open. Once free from its confines, the head of his cock eased up above the elastic, inflamed and desperate for her, for him, for anyone to touch.

“Yes,” she murmured, stepping closer. “Take them down.” He shoved them down to his knees and stood, nearly naked, exposed and vulnerable in a way he’d never been before.

“Oh, Ross,” she breathed, her eyes trained on his cock. He’d never made it a habit of comparing the size of his cock with other guys, but he knew he was larger than average. It throbbed, ramrod straight, back against his belly, tapping in time with the chaotic beating of his heart. She looked up into his eyes. “You’re beautiful, too.”

Her fingers traced along his abdomen which quivered under her touch. “I can’t,” he warned. “Too close.”

“Then let’s take care of that for you,” she said, giving his shoulders a little shove. He plopped down onto the armchair behind him, his brain barely registering what was happening before she dropped to her knees and took him into her mouth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, don't kill me. :-)
> 
> Seriously, this is about as explicit a thing I've ever written and I'm nervous as hell about putting it out there. I hope you like it.


	4. accarezzevole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _definition: a note or notes that precede the first full bar; a pickup_
> 
>  
> 
> Demelza Carne is a week away from starting her new career as a professor of music history and theory at Truro College, excited to begin a new stage in her life, devoid of the philandering ex-husband who broke her heart. And it is her heart her friend Caroline is worried about.
> 
> Well, perhaps not worried. And maybe not Demelza's heart. The night of her big 3-0, Demelza spots a tall, dark-haired man who can't take his eyes off of her during a pub crawl in Newquay. Chat leads to snogs leads to a night of passion Demelza never experienced before. In the morning, he is gone and all she knows is his first name: Ross. Throughout the week, she cannot get him out of her mind. His hands, his mouth, his body, simply...him. She looks for him and finds glimpses of him in the people and things she encounters: the luxuriant black curls of her regular barista; the eyes of a black cat belonging to her neighbour. Yet, she never finds him.
> 
> Until he walks into her lecture hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _chapter title definition: music term that is marked on sheet music to indicate a piece is to be played in an expressive and caressing manner_

Everything hit her senses at once: the violence of his gasping exclamation, the musky masculinity of his taste and scent in her nostrils, the heavy pulse of the blood that moved through the thick vein of his cock against her tongue, the grip of his fingers in her hair. She moaned, her fingers fumbling with the zip on her jeans. Must touch, must stroke, her breathing erratic as her hand wedged its way into her pants and to the steamy heat between her legs. She’d never been wetter in her life, the flesh beneath her touch swollen and needy. She stroked her clit between two fingers, her attention to his cock wavering an instant as the rush of need swept through her body, triggering her orgasm.

She moaned against the head of his dick as the first wave struck. She saw stars behind her tightly closed lids, her climax screaming through her veins, her muscles, her pussy, showering her hand with her juices. The grip on her hair tightened, and she sucked him in deeper, the nails of her free hand trailing down his tight abs.

“O-Oh, God,” was the garbled shout she heard an instant before the first stream of his cum filled her mouth. She swallowed the second pulse right atop the first. Her eyes watered as she tried to keep pace, continuing to jerk and twitch against her hand with the spasms of her release. “Christ, I'm sorry,” he rasped, pulling his cock free from her mouth and sending a third jet of semen roping across his chest. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!”

She raised her eyes to his, near black and drugged with pleasure, focused on her lips where she felt a trickle of his seed easing its way to her chin. “Ross,” she groaned, slipping her hand around the back of his head to pull him down for her kiss, sharing the bittersweetness of his flavour. They fell to the plush carpet, his arms clasping her against his trembling body. She gasped against his mouth when she removed her hand from her crotch. He eased back, his attention drawn to the slickness.

He grabbed her wrist. “Mine,” he growled, bringing her fingers to his mouth, licking and sucking them clean. “So good. Want more.” He rolled them until she was on her back, his fingers digging in the waistband of her jeans and thong, tugging them down to her ankles. She had a second to thank God for the bikini wax she’d had done that morning before he found her slick folds with his mouth, teeth and tongue.

She lurched, her hips bucking as he drank the sweet cream of her pussy. Three years since she’d felt a man’s tongue between her legs, the scratch of his stubble against the inside of her thighs, the deep, rumbling groans of masculine satisfaction caressing her ears. She’d felt such power when she’d held Ross in her mouth, had heard his cries, had felt his need. Those remembrances flitted through her mind, twisting like strands of rope with the sensations now clamouring through her body, tighter and tighter still. His hand pressed against her belly, his finger dipping into her navel as he stroked her quivering muscles. Another orgasm simmered, mere seconds away, when she felt him ease two of his long fingers into her centre, crooking the tips against the spot, that spot that was her undoing. She splintered into a billion pieces, her walls squeezing, convulsing around his digits as his tongue lapped at her wetness.

Minutes passed before she could gather enough strength to open her eyes. She found Ross staring down into her face, his head propped up on his hand. He was in the process of tonguing the fingers of his right hand. She reached for it, pulling it to her lips to suck the middle one into her mouth, swirling her tongue around it and watching his eyes burn like whiskey and fire.

“That is so hot.” She gave his finger a nip when he removed it. His hair was a wild, tousled mess, the smile on his young, handsome face telegraphing the return of his desire. “So beautiful,” he rasped, leaning close to kiss her, the scent of her infusing the air around them.

She slipped her arms around his chest, her right hand smoothing down his back to his ass. It quivered under her touch. “So were you.” She kissed his chin, sipping at the wetness that clung to his skin. “You had nothing to apologise for, Ross.”

“I’m not so certain.” He ran a finger along her tank, following the stains from his cum. “I think I ruined your top.”

“Nonsense,” she countered.

He blushed, toying with one of her curls that had come loose. “I meant to give you a chance not to---”

“---You are delicious,” she purred, kissing him.  “Grassy, salty and…” she thought for a moment. “Tropical, of all things. Don’t you think so?” He ducked his head, a half smile curving his beautiful lips. “Has no one ever done that to you before?”

“No,” he murmured, his hand caressing the curve of her waist beneath her tank. His thumb whispered close to the underside of her breast. She wished he’d cup it in his hand. “I mean I've had blowjobs before, but they didn't want to---”

“Swallow? Demelza finished incredulously. She stroked his chest, weaving her fingers through his chest hair and noticed a trace of semen glistening near his collarbone. She leaned close to run her tongue along his skin, pleased at his shivering response. “Those ‘girls’ you had?” she murmured against his strong, muscular throat. “Didn’t know what they were missing.”

“It was incredible,” he blurted. Demelza laughed throatily, pressing sharp, nibbling kisses along his strong jaw. “You are unbelievable.” His hand moved down to her hip before the backs of his fingers brushed the little thatch of russet curls on her mound. “And you taste so good, too,” Ross whispered. “Like a ripe, juicy peach.”

Demelza’s hips flexed at his touch, his words. “Mmmm. That’s lovely.”

His finger slipped between the folds of her sex to brush her clit. “I think I could go down on you all night long.”

She gasped and groaned, low in her throat, as his finger stroked the sensitive flesh, lust once again building between her legs. “As delightful as that sounds, I want to know what it’s like to fuck you, Ross.” His cock jerked against her hip. “And I think you do, too.” She squeezed his arse before slipping from his embrace. “There’s a bed and a box of condoms just over there.” She pointed towards the closed door.

He stood, holding his hands out to her. Jesus, he was magnificent, his strong legs and thighs, his dick thickening with each pulse of blood through his veins. She knelt, giving him a lick before he pulled her to her feet, slanting a long, delicious kiss across her mouth. “Lead the way, Demelza.”

~*~*~*~*~

Ross hoped his legs would carry him the ten feet they had to cover before reaching the door to the bedroom. Her fingers linked with his own, fingers he’d had in his mouth and on his body, nails that had scratched along his trembling lower belly and extracting the wildest orgasm he’d ever experienced. He'd never forget watching her movements, her full lips sliding up and down his shaft, the suction of her mouth, the stroke of her tongue and the fire in her sapphire eyes. Finally, the sensation of shooting his wad down her throat.

_ His orgasm was wrenching, slamming into him before he was able to warn her. He was so thrilled she didn’t need one. And then discovering she’d been masturbating while she blew him? It made him desperate to taste, to feast. He sucked her fingers, lifting the sweet-salty dew from her core before wrenching her jeans and thong down her long, slender legs. The full, strong scent of her arousal was intoxicating, the little patch of auburn fleece pointing the way to heaven. _

_ The inner petals of her pussy were a dark rose, thick, swollen and distended from between the plump, smooth outer lips,  _ _drenched with her juices,_ _  which drew his touch. The head of her clit large, turgid, red with need. It wasn’t a time for finesse; he wasn’t capable of it. He stroked the length of her slit with his tongue, the tip dipping into her centre, groaning as the salty sweetness of her cum bathed his mouth with her essence. She was delectable and intoxicating, tantalising musk, rich honey and the sea. He wrapped his arms around her thighs, his hands splaying on her quivering belly as he fed on her. He could spend the rest of his life going down on her, fucking her with his tongue, her cries buzzing in his brain, her straining, circular thrusts nudging his nose with her clit. _

_ He withdrew his right hand from her waist before sliding first one, then two fingers inside her tight, trembling centre curling his tongue around her nub, stroking and sucking, wishing he could plunge his cock so deep inside her.  _ Soon, _ he promised himself,  _ soon.

_ He reached his other hand up, up until he cupped her breast, its nipple rigid against his thumb. One of her hands joined him, squeezing his fingers hard against her flesh. He pinched her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “Yes, like that...s-s-so close,” she gasped. He’d thought she was, the flow of her juices relentless, flooding his mouth and chin. He did the one thing he’d learned from the first woman he’d slept with, crooking his fingers against a spot high inside her pussy. She keened, a musical sound that drew his eyes up her body to her face. He watched Demelza soar, so beautiful in her climax, her head thrown back, her nipples tenting her tank top and drawing her fingers to tweak as she fucked his mouth. _

“Ross?” Her sultry voice pulled him back from his remembrances. They stood face to face in front of the door. His cock was like granite, barely brushing against her silky tank top. She kissed him. “Where did you go just now?” she teased.

He pulled her close, eliciting a gasp. “Just remembering.”

She purred, nuzzling his neck. “Me too.” She tilted her head back then gestured at the door. “Ready for more?” He ground his pelvis against hers. “Oh, more than ready.” She turned the knob and pushed the door open. “And I’ve got to get out of this silly thing.” She smiled, stepping out of his embrace and turned, walking into the darkened room. Moonlight streamed in through the open blinds, leaving slanting stripes of light across the floor and the big, four-post bed, just as she'd promised. His cock pulsed, harder still. She reached for the bottom of the shirt, pulling it over her head, revealing her naked back to him for the first time. She had a long, graceful neck, curling tendrils of red-gold hair teasing along the sides. She was slender, beautiful, her narrow waist flaring out to wide hips and the most delectable arse he’d ever seen.

The two dimples above the plump cheeks beckoned him, so he stepped forward, placing his thumbs in each, wrapping his hands around her hips. “Demelza,” he said, his voice low and husky.

She looked over her shoulder at him. “Yes, Ross?”

“Your hair,” he said, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck. “May I see it down?”

“Of course you can,” she smiled. She reached up, her fingers searching for the pins and turned to face him. He was gobsmacked, not having had the time or ability to appreciate the perfection of her breasts when they’d been in the lift. They were full for her frame, not that he was complaining in the least. With her arms raised, they sat high and proud on her chest, pear-shaped and tipped with dusty-rose areola and nipples that begged for his touch, for his mouth. The flare of her hips, the prominence of her mound, and long, curvy legs with toes painted vermillion completed this impossible dream come true.

“At last,” she said, tugging the last pin and shook her head, sending her hair curling free from confinement to settle along her shoulders and halfway down her back. She grinned and did a pirouette. “What do you think?”

He took three steps, pulling her into his arms and kissed her, madly. His hand fisted in her hair near her nape as they devoured one another, her soft breasts crushed against his chest, his cock nudging her pussy. “Can’t believe,” he rasped against her mouth, pushing them towards the bed. “Can’t be happening.”

“Yes, oh God, yes it is,” she groaned. The back of her knees hit the side of the bed, and she collapsed upon it, shifting over to make room for him to lie beside her. Their mouths met with unabashed hunger and lust, his hand squeezing her breast, drinking the moans that came from her throat. His knee slid between hers and her left hand scrabbled towards the nightstand. “Condoms, in here.” He reached for the pull, yanking it nearly free from the frame.

His hand closed on the box. “Got it,” he said, his breath coming in pants.  _ I’m panting, I’m fucking panting,  _ he thought to himself.

She took it from him. “Dammit, why didn’t I open this earlier?” she huffed, her nails digging into the top. The thin cardboard ripped, sending a cascade of silver foil packets raining down upon them. They both laughed, and Ross was glad for it took the edge off the rampant need to get inside her. She handed him a packet. “I want to watch you put it on.”

He shuddered. “That makes me crazy,” he said through his teeth, tearing the corner and withdrawing the condom. “Your eyes when you watch me.”

“I like to watch,” she murmured, her hands squeezing his shoulders, his upper arms. “Hurry, please.”

Ross nodded, rolling the condom on his throbbing dick, his other knee joining its mate between hers. Her legs circled his waist, drawing him down to her. “Jesus Christ,” he groaned, rubbing his cock between the lips of her sex, once again slippery with her dew, the head nudging her clit.

"Now, please, now," she begged. Once, twice, her moans raising gooseflesh along his arms. Ross guided his cock to her core, looked into her eyes and plunged deep.

The walls of her sex gripped him, tight, slick, perfect as she exploded around him, her nails scoring his back. It was so good, better than good, no words to describe what it was like to thrust into her body. She took him to his hilt, his balls cushioned against her with each upstroke. He supported his weight on his forearms, his fingers threading through her hair. “Demelza,” he rasped, his lips near the shell of her ear, “it's so fucking good. So tight, squeezing my cock.” He raised his head, kissing her, his tongue mimicking the motions of his cock, hers swirling around, fluttering.

She wrenched her lips from his. “Yes,” she breathed, “filling me, so perfect.” Her hips circled his in time with his thrusts. “Fuck me, harder.”

“Christ,” he shouted, levering his weight onto his hand as he slammed his hips into hers, her thighs squeezing him around his waist. He felt the beginnings of his orgasm, the tightening of his balls against her, small, shimmering sensation along his inner thighs. “D-Don’t want to come y-y-et.”

“Almost,” she pleaded, “almost.” One of her hands left his back, sliding between them to flick against her clit. “Yes, oh God, yes...YES!” Shimmering, electric tingles along his spine and lower back and he called out, his cries joining hers as he plunged once more into her sweet cunt.

The first hot jet left him gasping, arching, grinding so deep, so far. He forced his eyes open, to watch Demelza when she lost herself with him, and he in her. Sweat darkened the strands of her hair nearest her hairline, her lips, swollen from their kisses, cheeks flushed pink and her eyes, half-slitted, glowing sea-green under her long lashes. His hips jerked and trembled as the last of his semen left his body, and he collapsed atop her, thoroughly spent. He’d never known a time when he’d been as satiated, as complete as he was at that moment.

He went to move; he was too heavy to stay like this. Demelza's legs tightened around his waist. “Stay, just for a minute,” she whispered against his throat. “You feel far too good to let go of now.”

“Let me get this sorted,” he murmured, withdrawing from her body far enough to dispose of the condom. He wiped his cock off on the sheet before returning to press her into the mattress. Her legs slipped around his hips once more, and he rested his head in the cradle of her neck and shoulder.

Best. Night. Ever.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Caroline looked at the clock on the nightstand.  _ Nearly eleven o’clock, _ she thought to herself, wondering if was safe to go out to the living room of the joint suite she’d booked with Demelza. It had been a bit of a shambles when Caroline had come back from the pub around two o’clock in the morning. She’d had a lovely time, even after her best friend had hightailed it with her new boy-toy. 

Caroline chuckled to herself as she rose from the bed and put on her robe. She hadn’t thought the woman would go through with it, although when presented with such an opportunity Demelza would have been an idiot to say no. And, if some of the noises she’d heard in the night were any indication, Demelza hadn’t squandered her chance to bed that gorgeous specimen of manhood, that was for certain.

Time to find out the details. Caroline brushed her teeth, ran a quick comb through her hair, and cracked open her door.

There was no sign of Ross’s clothing, left in a trail from the door to the armchair when Caroline had come in for the night. That’s where she'd found Demelza’s skinny jeans and little black thong; her strappy sandals were outside in the hallway. A room service cart stood just outside Demelza’s door, holding the remnants of a crab salad, two bottles of champagne, some chocolate dessert (based on the smears left on the plate) and, of all things, Cornish cream tea for two. Well, one did require sustenance when shagging a young, virile man. Caroline returned to her room, grabbed a bottle of aspirin and strode to the door. She took a deep breath and knocked gently on the door before walking right in.

_ Yep _ , she thought, delicately covering her nose.  _ An  _ epic _ night _ .

The scent of sex was heavy in the air. Unopened condom packets littered the floor near the bed, the well-mauled empty box giving Caroline an idea of what had happened. The duvet lay in a heap near the window sill, two hand smudges against the window itself making her hold back a laugh. Most of the decorative pillows were scattered around the room. There was a pile of them by the fireplace, which didn’t require too much imagination for their use. Caroline looked at the bed, where she could detect the small outline of her friend’s supine figure, completely shrouded under a sheet. The only part of her body exposed was her right arm, which bore a silk scarf around her delicate wrist.

Epic,  _ epic _ night. She approached the bed and patted Demelza’s hand. “Rise and shine, birthday girl!”

“Go ‘way,” a voice from under the covers moaned. 

“Demelza, we’ve an hour before we’re to check out, love.” Caroline poked at what appeared to be her hip.

“Why didn’t we make arrangements for late check-out?” she whined.

“It’s too late to do so now, darling,” Caroline said. “I checked. C’mon, let’s get going.” She tugged on the sheet and gasped.

There was Demelza, her hair an explosion of curls, nude, one of the cheeks of her arse bearing the red outline of a masculine hand. “Caroline!” she squeaked, grabbing the tail of the sheet and hauled it back over her body. She squinted at the windows. “Will you close those blinds?" She retreated under the sheet once more. "They are threatening to sear my retinas.”

“Oh, my poor darling friend,” Caroline crooned, setting the aspirin on the nightstand. She went to the windows, shifting them enough to reduce the glare by half then went to the en suite for a glass of water. When she exited, she found Demelza sitting up, the sheet clamped by her armpits, her head in her hands. “You appear to have had one hell of a night. Or should I say morning?”

Demelza peered up, her lovely eyes bloodshot and watery. “One could say that,” she muttered. Caroline shook two tablets from the bottle into Demelza's outstretched hand. She tossed them into her mouth and waved over the glass of water. 

"One could say a lot of things about last night," Caroline remarked. "Lush, hedonistic, the perfect way to usher in one's third decade on planet earth."

Demelza's eyes met Caroline's over the lip of the glass. "Smart arse." 

"Well it's true," Caroline snorted, arching a brow. She picked up the end of the silk scarf tied around Demelza's wrist. "You kinky thing you."

“Oh, stop looking at me like that!” Demelza snapped. "Oh, God, my head," she moaned, clearly pained by the volume of her voice.

“No, I won’t!” Caroline cackled. “Jezebel.”

Demelza groaned, sinking back down on the bed, and burying her head under the sheet.

Epic, epic night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to all of you who have supported this work. DoffiePoldark, thanks for all of your help with setting the scene at Newquay for me! Rainpuddle, you're wonderful...thank you for gifting me this bunny to nurture.


	5. repente

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _definition: a note or notes that precede the first full bar; a pickup_
> 
>  
> 
> Demelza Carne is a week away from starting her new career as a professor of music history and theory at Truro College, excited to begin a new stage in her life, devoid of the philandering ex-husband who broke her heart. And it is her heart her friend Caroline is worried about.
> 
> Well, perhaps not worried. And maybe not Demelza's heart. The night of her big 3-0, Demelza spots a tall, dark-haired man who can't take his eyes off of her during a pub crawl in Newquay. Chat leads to snogs leads to a night of passion Demelza never experienced before. In the morning, he is gone and all she knows is his first name: Ross. Throughout the week, she cannot get him out of her mind. His hands, his mouth, his body, simply...him. She looks for him and finds glimpses of him in the people and things she encounters: the luxuriant black curls of her regular barista; the eyes of a black cat belonging to her neighbour. Yet, she never finds him.
> 
> Until he walks into her lecture hall.
> 
> A Modern Romelza AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _chapter definition: Suddenly_

It was the persistent buzzing that forced Ross’s eyes open, eyes that felt like all of the sand from the beaches of Newquay resided within them. He had to blink a few times before his vision cleared enough to take in his surroundings: a canopy above his head, daylight only starting to cut through the gloom, and the tousled red hair of the woman he’d picked up at On the Rocks or, rather, who’d picked him up.

His cock, sporting morning wood, as usual, twitched hard and he grinned stretching limbs fatigued by a night of hedonistic delight of which he had both vague and vivid memories, and the creeping desire to make more of them. She lay on her stomach, her beautiful back and shoulders exposed. He drew the sheet down another inch or two until he saw the pinky-rose outline of his hand on one of the perfect cheeks of her bum. She’d told him to squeeze and spank it when they were fucking over by the window, her hands pressed against the glass, their reflection shimmering, holding their gazes riveted as he’d pumped his very life into her core.

He was reaching for that perfect arse when the buzzing distracted him. He frowned, looking at the battered mobile phone he’d set on the nightstand during one of their breaks in the evening’s activities. He’d been in the process of sending a short text to Dwight when Demelza walked towards him, the last forkful of torte in her hand. She’d dipped one manicured finger into the dessert and smeared the creamy, dark chocolate onto her turgid nipple.

Text? _What_ text?

The mobile buzzed again. He slid it off the nightstand, flipped it over and felt the earth fall out from under him:

 _From: Dwight Enys_  
_To: Ross Poldark_  
_30/05/2017 06:15_

_Ross, I’m half pissed and half envious of how you must have spent your night, but you need to get your arse back home for the wedding NOW._

_From: Dwight Enys_  
_To: Ross Poldark_  
_30/05/2017 06:28_

_Goddammit, Ross, PICK UP YOUR MOBILE!_

_From: Dwight Enys_  
_To: Ross Poldark_  
_30/05/2017 06:33_

_I swear to God if you have that thing on silent I will neuter you, No, not me. Polly will._

_From: Dwight Enys_  
_To: Ross Poldark_  
_30/05/2017 06:39_

_WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?_

_From: Dwight Enys_  
_To: Ross Poldark_  
_30/05/2017 07:15_

_We’ve driven all over Newquay and found your van, you wanker. No sign of you anywhere. You have an hour before they start photos. You fuck this up, and it’ll be your arse._

“Shit,” he mouthed, panic-induced adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream. He looked at Demelza, wanted to wake her, make love to her once more before walking out of her life, but there was no time. One of his best friends was getting married in little over an hour. He’d bailed on the stag party because of the beautiful woman who’d turned his universe upside down with her passion, her confidence, her appetite, now so peaceful in her slumber. He couldn’t wake her, not after the gift she’d given him. God knew he needed more sleep himself, but that was out of the question. Maybe later, but not now.

“Blimey,” he whispered, his eyes watering from funk coming off of him in waves. Nothing to be done for it now. His muscles protested as he slid out from under the sheet and he managed to stifle the curse that came to his lips. He felt as if he’d run a marathon and done a round of weights at the gym at the same time. Not a surprise after all of their sexual acrobatics from their night. He padded gingerly over to the desk and withdrew a sheet of stationery. He stared at it for a full two minutes, trying to figure out what to say. What did one say in a situation like this? Did he want to see her again? His dick gave a strong, affirmative throb. He’d all but said it while they lay by the fire, sharing the best crab salad sandwich he’d ever eaten.

_“Ross,” she said softly, tilting her head back to drain the last of the champagne from her flute. He leaned forward to kiss the arch of her throat and felt the vibrations of her laughter against his lips. “This experience, it’s been amazing. The perfect way to ring in one’s birthday. Not that I’ll ever admit it to my friend Caroline.”_

_He grinned. “What’s she got to do with it?”_

_Demelza flicked a sideways glance at him before she reached for the chocolate torte. “She was the one who suggested we go out tonight.” She broke off a piece and tucked it into her mouth, licking her fingers. “That I see if I met someone who tickled my fancy.” She walked her fingers up his chest to slide into the hair at his nape. “And to take him home for the night.” He gasped as she drew him down for a deep kiss, filled with longing, of hunger of a different kind. “Does that shock you?”_

_He licked his lips. Demelza tasted of chocolate and champagne, of sex and desire. “Not so much now as it would have if you’d said it at the start.” He smoothed his palm along the curve of her waist to her hip. “Can you offer your friend my sincerest thanks for convincing you?”_

_She giggled, dipping her finger into the chocolate and painting the lines of his tattoo. Her tongue traced its way from bicep to shoulder. “I’ll pass along your message,” she murmured, nibbling along his neck before taking his mouth with hers._

It was evident, from the words she’d chosen during their thoughtful, post-coital conversation, that all she’d wanted was a night with him, no strings attached. In the end, what did _he_ really want out of it? What could he really offer? They had a couple of things in common, sure, but she was older than he was, by how much he still had no clue. He wasn’t stupid enough to ask, even on her birthday. And she was loaded -- if the hotel she’d booked was any indication -- rolling in money, for fuck’s sake.

The phone buzzed once more, making him jump and wince. A text from Polly Daniel, the bride to be. _You’re a dead man, Poldark._ He had to go. He scribbled a quick note, tucked it under a few of the condom packets on the nightstand. With one last kiss on her shoulder, he was gone.

 _From: Ross Poldark_  
_To: Dwight Enys_  
_30/05/2017 07:23_

_In an Uber to the van. Will be there as soon as I can. Please tell Zacky and Polly I’m sorry._

It took him ten minutes to get from the hotel to his van, where a rather profane note in Zacky’s handwriting had been left under his windscreen wiper. His head was screaming for some aspirin, but that would have to wait until he got home. One thing that couldn’t was caffeine. He spent the last of his cash for a cup, thick enough to stand a spoon in, at the BP, along with a couple of litres of petrol to get him home. He burned the inside of his mouth on the java and narrowly avoided dumping it into his crotch getting into the van. He got himself settled and looked at his mobile.

 _From: Dwight Enys_  
_To: Ross Poldark_  
_30/05/2017 07:40_

_35 MINUTES. STOP FAFFING ABOUT AND MOVE._

He tore along the A392, a laundry list of the things he had to do ticking through his brain. He had to shower, that was unavoidable. He was already in enough trouble as it was then he would be, showing up and smelling like a brothel. Except, he didn’t, when he thought about it. All he had to do was take a deep breath and he was back with her once again, touching, tasting, squeezing her, her nails scratching his back, his hips, the inside of his thighs as her mouth and her pussy worked its magic on his body. _Stop romanticising the situation, Poldark, you are rank._ He turned on the radio and put the pedal to the metal, grateful it was Sunday and traffic was light. He trotted into his flat a little after eight o’clock.

His beard was a shade beyond what would be considered suitable for a wedding, but there was no time to shave. Not if he wished to spare his face from being slashed to oblivion. He tore off his kit and hit the shower. “Motherfucker!” he yelped. The water was icy cold. His balls all but retreated into his groin as he shivered and whimpered with discomfort, but nothing he could do about it. He attacked his hair and body with his shampoo -- no time for soap -- using his hands to lather off the pleasures of the night before and was finished just as the water had reached a comfortable temperature. He changed his mind about shaving, and the end result was nearly as bad as he’d feared. _Penance...penance…._ He tore off little flecks of toilet roll to staunch the five cuts he’d incurred in his haste.

He scrubbed a hand across the foggy mirror. “Could be worse,” he mumbled and checked his eyes. They looked like hammered dog shite. He blinked back stinging tears of Visine while he violently towelled his hair dry, shifting the cheap terry cloth sheet around his back to quickly mop up the water on his back only to flinch at its touch. “What the hell?” He turned to check his back in the mirror and chuckled. A series of scratches marked up his shoulders and middle back. She’d even broken the skin in a couple of places. He attended to the rest of his body with more care, discovering other battle scars from his night with Demelza. She’d given him a bite on his inner thigh, very near his balls, when they’d been sixty-nining by the fireplace. He hoped the one he’d given her on the skin between her neck and shoulder wouldn’t cause her any difficulties or awkward explanations. She’d seemed very keen on it at the moment.

His cock was coming to life once more when his mobile chimed.

 _From: Mark Daniel_  
_To: Ross Poldark_  
_30/05/2017 08:10_

_Mum’s asked where you are. This is not good._

“Focus!” he shouted at himself. He slapped enough product into his hair to make sure it would stay slicked back in its ponytail long enough to look decent in the photos. The rented, dark grey monkey suit was much nicer than any of the clothes he had in his meagre wardrobe.The sleeves were a little long but everything else fit decent enough to make him look respectable. He opted for one of his own bow ties. He had a myriad of them in different colours, all used for his catering gigs. The black, clip-on number that had come with the suit was an atrocity. He was the only one of his crew who knew how to manage an actual bow tie, and this was the perfect day for it. He popped a couple of aspirin in his mouth and pounded out the door.

He was only four minutes late. Dwight was upon him the minute he galloped up the pavement at Rosteague, the stately manor house on the Roseland Peninsula in Portscatho. “Dude. What the fuck.”

“I know, I know,” Ross said, raising his hands placatingly. “Long, long story, mate.”

“Yeah, one we expect you to share with us as soon as this thing is over with,” Dwight growled. “You’ve had Polly out of her mind.”

“I know, I’m so---”

“---And it’s not just about her, you prat,” Dwight interrupted, roughly straightening Ross’s tie. “Don’t you remember Zacky telling us her blood pressure has been a problem for the last month and a half, so having one of her husband-to-be's groomsmen go AWOL? That was just not on, Ross.”

Ross closed his eyes. Dwight was pre-med, following in his father’s footsteps, so Ross didn’t doubt a word his friend had said. “Christ, I’m sorry, Dwight,” Ross said. “Should I go apologize to her now or later, what do you think?”

Dwight arched a brow at his friend. “Later. You’re here now, that’s the important thing. But a little impromptu guitar at the reception might stand you in good stead with the future Mrs Zacky.”

“Oh, I’m happy to!” Ross said, glad of the suggestion.

You brought it, right?”

“Don’t leave home without it, especially on a day like today.” He had two guitars, one an acoustic he kept in the van for just these kinds of moments. The other was his pride and joy, a Fender Telecaster Thinline, a gift from his father for his eighteenth birthday. A shadow crossed his thoughts. His father had been in a care home for the last two years, having suffered a stroke that paralysed the left side of his body. They’d had to sell eighty percent of their property at Nampara to cover the costs. Ross promised himself to spend some time with his father after he’d finished up here.

Dwight grinned. “Zacky, on the other hand, may extract something a bit more precious to your wallet. I heard him muttering about single malts.” Ross groaned. Dwight smiled. “I’m just sayin’.”

“If it’s the hooch Zacky’s been braying about for the last month, it’ll have to wait until I’ve the cash from a couple of my upcoming jobs.” Dwight laughed. _No sympathy from this crowd today._ “Let’s go get Mr Martin married.”

“Answer me one question.” Dwight put a hand on Ross’s shoulder as they approached the cluster of people posing for family pictures. “Was she worth it?”

Ross gave his friend his second grin of the morning. “Oh, hell yes.”

~*~*~*~*~

_Wk 12-4/6 Dec. -- The Baroque - Early 17th Century, Opera, Monteverdi, Chamber ensembles, live performance_

  * _Chapter 14 - Opera_
  * _Submit 2 online quizzes to the Norton Gradebook_
  * _Chapter 15 - Chamber Music_
  * _Submit 2 online quizzes to the Norton Gradebook_
  * _Office hours: research paper consultation: 4/12 1500-1700; 5/12 all day; 6/12 1500-1700; 7/12 0800-1500_



_Wk 13-11/13 Dec. -- The Baroque - National Styles and developments, later 17th Century, Glimpses of later Baroque_

  * _Chapter 16 - France, England, Spain, New World_
  * _Submit 2 online quizzes to the Norton Gradebook_
  * _Chapter 17 - Italy and Germany_
  * _Submit 2 online quizzes to the Norton Gradebook_
  * _Complete Research paper (Due 18/12)_



_Wk 14-18/20 Dec._

  * _Catch up, miscellany and review_
  * _Study for exam,_



_21 Dec -- Final Exam_

Demelza’s fingers flew over the keypad of her laptop finishing up the edits to Music 101 class syllabus. Dr Felicity Thomas-Tregothan, department head for Truro College’s School of Music, had returned the draft only that morning. It had taken Demelza most of the day to wallow through the red ink and update her reference sheets. Thomas-Tregothan had been with the organization for almost twenty years, full of bluster and very much set in her ways. Demelza found she’d had to fight for two of the new, required texts she’d wanted to use for the bulk of her coursework, simply because they weren’t the same, old, tired texts from twenty years ago. She only hoped she would get this over to the print shop queue before the cut-off, a mere thirty minutes away. Otherwise, she’d be down at Kinko’s first thing in the morning. Just the way to start off one’s new career as a Doctor of Philosophy in Music History and Theory.

Her mobile rang and she smiled when she saw Caroline’s pretty picture flash on her lock screen. She hit save on her document and swiped right to answer on speaker. “Caroline! Don’t tell me you’re not able to come by this evening?”

“Dinner at your place? Never in a million years, darling! I’m on my way out now.” Caroline quipped. A car door slammed shut and the smooth, kitten-like purr of her friend’s Jag tickled Demelza’s ears. “I’m still trying to find a decent cookery school who can send over one of their new folks for a tryout.” Demelza rolled her eyes. It wasn’t that Caroline couldn’t cook; she just didn’t want to. “How’s Professor Carne settling in before her first day at school?”

“You make it sound as if I’ve never taught a class in my life,” Demelza muttered. The opposite was true: she’d been student teaching since the last year of her Master’s degree. “I’ve been flogging away on my final syllabus and want to read through it once more before I send it for printing.”

“You’re not going to put your poor first years through hell, are you?” Caroline asked.

“Of course not,” Demelza replied. “They will find it challenging and, I hope, intriguing.”

Caroline laughed, “Darling, tell me you remember how you cornered poor Mrs Bodrugan, bending her half-deaf ear over the shift from the Classical period of Mozart, to the Romantic musical era, characterized by Ludwig van Beethoven and Franz Schubert in the 19th century at the charity auction two weeks ago?” Demelza grimaced. She was such a nerd when it came to music history. She had a hard time understanding why she was often the only one of their crowd fascinated by the influence opera continued to play in the music of that period. “You are adorable when you get all obsessed like that.”

Demelza let out a rueful chuckle. “Bitch.”

“You know it,” Caroline said in agreement. “Speaking of obsession, any more ridonkulous dreams about your boy-toy?”

Demelza covered her face with her hands. She’d been woken by memories of Ross playfully torturing her with his clever mouth and some ice cubes from the champagne cooler. Nothing like being randy as hell at three in the morning. Thank heavens for vibrators; that was all she had to say about that. “You know, I really should have kept that to myself.”

“I know you’re holding out on some of the details,” her friend laughingly accused. “What you have shared wouldn’t have resulted in the room looking like the inside of a harem’s tent.”

Demelza’s cheeks burned the palms of her hands. It was true, she hadn’t shared everything that had happened that night, a little over a week ago when she’d dragged a complete stranger to her hotel room to shag him senseless. She’d been more fearless and assertive that she’d ever been with Hugh, entertaining fantasies that had lurked around in her head for years, some of which made her doubt her sanity. One should trust the person who ties you to the bed post while they bring one to an endless stream of orgasms with their mouth, fingers and cock, shouldn’t one?

_She flopped back against the mattress while Caroline drew her a bath in the soaking tub. The aspirin had taken the edge off of a blistering headache threatening to turn her brains into mush. As the pain receded in her skull, other aches and pains rose to assume dominance with her neural receptors. The inside of her thighs were bruised and tender from Ross’s narrow hips. His strong, delicious hips. If she were honest with herself, she’d rather missed that kind of deep, physical souvenir of good, hard sex and the way it would stay with you for days, nudging at her memory with each step, each time she crossed her legs, of having had a man. And it would this time, she had no doubt. Her pussy, though...it throbbed, felt raw with discomfort. If she had an ice dildo at her disposal she thought she would put that thing to good use._

_Or a frozen cucumber._ Hmmm...must remember to do that when I get home _, she promised herself. She rolled over onto her side, sat up and groaned. “_ Strike that. Make it a courgette,” _she moaned aloud as she minced her way into the en suite. She really had overdone it. She hadn’t thought it possible, but yes...one could have too much sex in a night._

_“Is there any hope for some coffee?” she asked Caroline, squinting at the brightness of the room._

_“Yes, I ordered some room service before I started your bath,” her friend said, wrinkling her nose as Demelza let the thick robe slide to the floor. She let out a gasp. “You’ve a hickey, you slag!”_

_Demelza squeaked, from the noise reverberating off the white marble walls of the room and shock at Caroline’s teasing words. “Where? Where is it?” she asked, although she had a vague, unsettling recollection of the incident._

_“Here.” Caroline giggled when she touched the skin covering Demelza’s trapezius. “As fair-skinned as you are, you’ll have to wear scarves for at least two weeks!”_

_“Oh God,” Demelza groaned, turning her head to look in the mirror. There it was, red and purple, stark against her white skin. He’d done it when they were spooning in bed very late in the night, a sleepy fuck that had grown frenzied and wild by the end. “Come for me, baby,” he’d rasped in her ear before his teeth sampled the skin near her neck. She bucked against him, her fingers pinching her nipples, her mouth pressed against the pillow, swallowing her screams of ecstasy as his hand stroked and circled her swollen nub._

_Her ravaged pussy pulsed, impossibly hungry for his touch once again. “Oh, God,” she sighed, sinking into the steaming hot water until it covered her head. She never wanted to leave it again, but needed air, so she surfaced, shoving her thick tresses out of her face. “Caroline, what have I done?” her voice breaking._

_Her friend frowned. “Demelza, darling.” she crooned, kneeling next to the tub. “You’ve had yourself a little night on the town, that’s what.” She poured in some of the bath salts from their spa visit the day before. “You were two consenting adults who gave one another passion and companionship, no more, no less.” Caroline set a cup of coffee on the broad lip of the tub. “Now, you’ve about fifteen minutes to soak before you need to shower off all that night-on-the-town off. Are you alright in here on your own?”_

_She nodded. “I’ll be out in a few minutes. Thank you, Caroline.” Her best friend smiled and slipped from the room. The coffee and the heat of the water did much to clear the muzziness of her brain and was soon stepping out of the shower, squeaky clean and feeling more like her usual self than she certainly had done upon rising._

_Caroline had set a soft pair of yoga pants and an oversized tunic out for the trip home. Demelza had only just turned off the hair dryer when her friend came into the room. “I found this as I was packing up your things,” she murmured, handing Demelza a folded piece of paper. “It was on the nightstand.” Demelza’s hands shook when she unfolded it, recognizing the pale blue of the hotel’s stationery._

_Demelza – Very, very late for my friend’s wedding. Sorry to leave without saying goodbye. I’ll never forget our once in a lifetime night together. Ross._

She’d been right to emphasize their encounter should only be for the one night, hadn’t she? Of course, she had. He was far too young for her. Yet, she’d looked for him as she’d gone about her week, preparing for class and had seen glimpses that stirred powerful, visceral memories of her experience with him. The kid at the espresso counter in the student union’s hair was the same colour and texture as Ross’s had been, only shorter. Truthfully, she’d had a moment of panic when she’d seen the barista, wondering if her luck had been so bad as to pick a lad she’d have to see every day. Two days later, she’d visited Caroline’s and met a sleek, tabby cat on the wall near the parking area that eyes of the same changeable nature, fiery gold and amber, cool green along the edges. And hadn’t it only been that afternoon she’d encountered the scent of his cologne when she’d gone to London to shop for the fall season? She’d walked past a boutique fragrance shop on her way from Aesop Soho and had nearly sprained an ankle making her way back to it. It was definitely the one he’d worn -- although how he’d been able to afford it was beyond her -- but it was missing that singular something that had made it Ross.

Well, this needed to stop. It had ended the way it was meant to, with no ties, no commitments. No future.

She smiled slyly. “Get here soon and, if you can manage to find a bottle of that pinot gris you had at your flat last month, I might just tell you about the pillows by the fire.”

 

“Good afternoon, everyone.” Demelza finished writing her name on the whiteboard and turned to scan the room. “I am Professor Carne. Welcome to the history of Western Music I, MUS 101. Please take a moment to check your course schedules. If you are not registered for Music 101 please leave by the door at the rear of the classroom. Thank you.” She checked her notes at the podium, discreetly watching a few of the students scurry towards the rear over the rims of her tortoise shell glasses, their whispered apologies to those still seated audible to her sharp hearing. Dr Thomas-Tregothan was seated near the exit and didn’t fail to view these individuals with an arched brow dripping with judgment. Demelza had known her department head would observe her course today. The woman had three new faculty members to keep track of, which gave Demelza hope her stay in there would be short-lived. She hoped.

“In this first semester, we will cover the time period from around 600 to 1750, with an introduction to ancient music and continue through the periods of the Middle Ages, Renaissance and Baroque.” She looked up at her students, almost seventy-five seated in one of the smaller classrooms, the seats climbing steeply fifty feet to the back of the room, where the light from LCD projector flickered with each click of the presentation remote. The ratio of approximately two to one female to male, but beyond that, she hadn’t a clue. The updated copies of the syllabus had only come off of the printer thirty minutes before the start of her class, so she hadn’t had time to review the class list before the students had begun to wander in from their lunch break. _Thank you, Felicity,_ she thought to herself.

Demelza motioned towards the PowerPoint slide and used the red laser pointer to touch on each bullet. “We will address the musical characteristics, instruments and theory of each period as well as the cultural and historical contexts including philosophy, religion, politics, art, architecture and daily life.” She set the remote down, exchanging it for a copy of the syllabus. “Please look at page two of your syllabus to review th—”

The door at the top of the hall opened, the latch as loud as a gunshot in the open space. Demelza’s eyes shot up to the tall individual standing silhouetted from the afternoon sunlight streaming through the hallway’s windows. The only thing she could make out was that he was male. “Yes, please come in, take a copy of the syllabus at the end of the row and find a seat,” she said, not bothering to keep the note of annoyance out of her voice. Tardiness was one of her biggest pet peeves, and this individual’s late appearance would provide the perfect segue to review her rules for participation and attendance with the group. The only problem was the individual hadn’t budged from his spot by the door. “Were my instructions unclear, sir?” she snapped. “Take a copy of the syllabus and find a se--” He’d released his hold on the door, swinging shut to block the brightness behind him.

Her heart stopped in her chest.

It was Ross.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun DUNNN. Oh dear. NOW what? You'll just have to wait and see!
> 
> Thanks to rainpuddle and everyone who has supported this work. I've also shamelessly borrowed from a couple of resources I found online, including the [details for the syllabus and Demelza's opening speech to her class. ](http://www.fyreandlightning.org/jsc/HOWMI/HoWMI%20FA13%20Syl.html)I love music and singing, but I've not a clue about this level of specifics.


	6. ritardando

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title definition: _definition: a note or notes that precede the first full bar; a pickup_  
> 
> Demelza Carne is a week away from starting her new career as a professor of music history and theory at Truro College, excited to begin a new stage in her life, devoid of the philandering ex-husband who broke her heart. And it is her heart her friend Caroline is worried about. 
> 
> Well, perhaps not worried. And maybe not Demelza's heart. The night of her big 3-0, Demelza spots a tall, dark-haired man who can't take his eyes off of her during a pub crawl in Newquay. Chat leads to snogs leads to a night of passion Demelza never experienced before. In the morning, he is gone and all she knows is his first name: Ross. Throughout the week, she cannot get him out of her mind. His hands, his mouth, his body, simply...him. She looks for him and finds glimpses of him in the people and things she encounters: the luxuriant black curls of her regular barista; the eyes of a black cat belonging to her neighbour. Yet, she never finds him. 
> 
> Until he walks into her lecture hall. 
> 
> A Modern Romelza AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title definition: _Slowing down; decelerating; opposite of accelerando_

Ross stared down at Demelza standing near the podium, her eyes meeting his in shock and utter disbelief for a full five seconds before she cleared throat. “P-Please take a seat.” Her voice, low and husky, forced his feet to move forward. He tore his gaze from hers, stumbling a few feet over to an open spot near the top of the auditorium.

He collapsed in his seat, the flap on his messenger bag sliding open to dump his laptop and textbooks onto the carpeted floor with a dull thud. “Be careful,” a voice whispered to his left. “Don’t want to break your computer on the first day of class.” He turned to find a lovely young woman seated to his left. She handed him his book and a copy of the syllabus. “I’m Jemma.”

He nodded his thanks, her cheeks turning a rosy pink at his gesture. “R-Ross,” he said automatically, “nice to meet you.”

“Excuse me, Dr Carne,” a harsh, abrasive woman’s voice came from Ross’s right, on the other side of the aisle from where he sat. She gestured in his direction. “This student seems to think we are in the middle of a social club.”

Ross was well acquainted with that voice. He felt the blood rush to his cheeks and barely kept from rolling his eyes. Why hadn’t he paid attention to where he was sitting? Dr Thomas-Tregothan had had it out for him for the past year, as he’d ducked and dodged his way out of the introductory courses his last two years in school. That was until this semester when his adviser cornered him and re-registered him the two classes he’d been evading: music history and music appreciation. “I’m sorry, D-Dr Carne,” he stammered, her last name tasting foreign on his tongue.

She met his eyes, giving him a jerky nod and flipping through her notes before continuing with her lecture. “Students will be required to describe general stylistic characteristics of music and influential composers of the Ancient, Medieval, Renaissance and Baroque periods. Identify various musical styles and genres, extending and enriching their comprehension and enjoyment of music. You will need to apply your knowledge of elements of musical style to identify musical works by historical period and genre. Comprehend the historical development of musical style in western culture about political, economic, social and religious events and values of various periods in history…”

 _She could be speaking Swahili for all I know_ , he thought to himself, his brain failing to make sense of what she said. His eyes surreptitiously watched Demelza over the top of the syllabus. Her hair was unbound, falling in satiny waves to her shoulders and along her upper back. When she wasn’t looking at her laptop, she would slide her glasses up onto her head. When she did, it exposed a tempting inch of skin along the graceful curve of her neck just above the high collar of her off-white blouse. The soft, woolly garment skimmed over her body, demure yet enticed the touch of his fingers. The warm, autumnal plaid fabric of her skirt smoothed over her hips and thighs, ending midway down her calves. He stifled a groan when she turned to write something on the whiteboard. The four-inch heels of her sleek, chocolate-brown leather boots did _amazing_ things for her bum.

Ross pulled the laptop from his bag and absently started to take notes. What were the chances of this happening? He’d thought they _might_ run into one another, someday. There were under twenty-thousand people who lived in Truro, so it stood to reason it might happen at some point. At some fundraiser, where 3C were booked to cater, or maybe if she’d had to move something and had done a search on Yelp – he did have fantastic reviews. But for her to be a music professor here at the college? Never in a million years! Music teachers were grouchy, attitudinal, perfectionistic, and…well…old. He cast a sideways glance at Thomas-Tregothan. The old goat was watching every move Demelza made, busily scratching notes into her composition pad. _Aha…first day observation,_ he thought to himself, _and here I am, the arsehole student for Demelza’s first day. Nice move, Poldark._

Had Demelza shared anything about her profession? They’d been too busy fucking each other’s brains out to chatter about what they did for a living. All he knew was she was smart, witty, and insatiable. It was a combination that had worked for him.

Was this the same woman who’d seduced him with her infectious laughter, her confidence, her sensuality a little over a week ago? Sleek, professional, her sea-green eyes hidden behind the teal and brown tortoise-shell frames, her makeup subtle and natural, the shell pink of her glossy lips torturing him, knowing what those lips could do to him, what he’d dreamt of them doing every night since they’d parted.

He forced himself to pay attention to what she was teaching, but it was difficult when he’d catch glimpses of her when she would do or say something, a mannerism or an expression, that he’d seen or heard from her at the hotel. Like when she’d run her hand up her throat, or if she’d bit her bottom lip. He’d bitten back a groan when she’d leant forward on the podium, her pert bum almost the mirrored image of the moment when they’d fucked by the window sill. He wondered what it would be like repeating the act, except in her office, that pencil skirt shoved up to her waist, booted feet spread for him. Sparks raced along his skin, the pulse in his crotch heavy, his cock thickening.

The bell rung, drawing Ross back to the present. Perfect time for a hard-on, you _twat_. “Read Chapter 1 - Music in Antiquity and Chapter 2 - The First Millennium for our next class,” Demelza called. “Coursework includes the first three quizzes in the grade book as well as your brief essay on why you are studying music. One page only using the online template in the grade book. Office hours are noted on your syllabus. However, I will be delayed until four o’clock this afternoon. Thank you very much, everyone.” The din of the students leaving the room was staggering, but he noticed she’d raised her head to meet his eyes before she turned off her computer. He had to talk to her, to sort all of this out, and he thought he read the same need in her eyes. Her expression changed when Thomas-Tregothan started to make her way through the students swimming upstream towards the exits. He imagined Demelza would be busy with her for a while. Just as well – he had reserved one of the practice rooms until half past four o’clock. He slung his pack over his shoulder and exited the room.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Demelza’s hand shook as she pressed her cardkey against the reader for her office. She entered the room, immediately relocking the door and pulling the blind over the glass. She was breathless, but not from the four flights of stairs she ordinarily took. Today, she was unsteady enough on her feet to opt for the elevator.

How on earth had this happened? How had the young man who she’d picked up in a bar for a night of unbridled, anonymous sex wound up sitting in her classroom? Well, her partner in that impulsive hookup now had a full name: Ross Poldark, and he was anonymous no more.

She made her way to her standing desk, small enough to accommodate the upright piano she’d had most of her life in with her. She’d often found it helpful to play through the stress and frustrations of her day to day life, and finding an open piano in one of the practice rooms was nearly impossible with school in full swing. She knew it would get a workout later this evening, but for now, she tugged her laptop from her bag and reviewed the class list. The class list she hadn’t had the chance to review that morning because of the print shop debacle. Sure enough, three-quarters of the way down there he sat:

> Poldark, Ross Vennor  
>  28/12/1997  
>  3rd year, guitar performance  
>  Off-Campus  
>  21 Mitchell Hill, Truro TR1  
>  +44 1555 272121  
>  Charles Poldark, emergeny contact  
>  ross.poldark@trurocollege.edu

A shiver ran through her. She had everything: his address, birthdate, telephone number, and email. Demelza knew Truro well enough to know Mitchell Hill was a relatively seedy part of town, where row houses had been converted into single room studios or one bedroom flats. _The perfect place for a starving musician,_ she mused. She hesitated for a second before she opened her browser and plugged the address into Google Maps, stopping herself before she hit the enter key.

What in the hell was she doing? Using her position as his instructor to access personal information from a student for _personal_ reasons? The ethical issues muddying this entire situation made her head swim. All of the paperwork she’d had to sign when she accepted her teaching contract came floating back into her head, the section on favouritism in flashing, neon lights:

> _“It is expected that we will not engage in consensual relations with a student or another employee if we are in a position to influence the academic or employment activities of the individual. If you have influence over academic or employment activities of an immediate family member, or person with whom you have a consenting relationship, you must immediately report the situation to your supervisor or department management to provide notice and manage this potential conflict.”_

She closed the class list and browser, slapping the lid of the laptop shut. The truth of the matter was she hadn’t done anything that could be considered an ethics violation, at this point of the game. She had no idea who Ross was when she met him at On the Rocks. But that had changed the instant he’d walked into her class.

The first few moments after seeing Ross, larger than life, at the back of the auditorium, had stilled her words in her throat. His unruly hair was bracketed away from his face by a pair of wraparound sunglasses, his eyes vivid and magnetic, even at forty feet. The leather jacket he’d worn at the club and blue jumper covered his upper body and torso, his battered Levi’s fitting him like a glove. Memories of his naked body assailed her, the taste and feel of him under her hands, her tongue. His weight atop her, between her legs, pressing her into the mattress or carpet...Her nipples had tightened, heat centring low in her belly. She had dropped her gaze directly to his crotch, a full body flush of heat scorching enough to have caused her to stammer her command to find a seat. Thank God she’d kept her reading glasses on; perhaps he hadn’t noticed. Or, worse yet, Felicity Thomas-Tregothan. Demelza had hoped to only have the department head stay for the first few moments, but she’d stayed for the entire class, her dark, expressionless eyes watching Demelza’s every move. It was certain she’d receive an earful from the woman very shortly.

Almost on cue, a sharp rap rattled the glass in the door’s window. “Dr Carne? Felicity Thomas-Tregothan here to discuss my observations.”

Demelza sighed heavily and unlocked the door. “Come in.” She walked over to the two chairs near the window, pasting a smile on her face as the older woman approached, clipboard in hand. “Would you care for some tea?”

“If it is no trouble, thank you,” Felicity drawled, settling herself in the more comfortable of the two chairs. What a surprise.

Demelza busied herself with the kettle and, within a few moments, had produced two mugs of tea. “I’ve only got sugar,” she offered apologetically. “I was running behind this morning, so I’ve not had a chance to stock my mini-fridge with lemons.” Felicity nodded brusquely. Demeza knew the department head preferred her tea with lemon and sugar. One out of two wasn’t bad.

“I’m certain you’re interested in hearing my impressions of your class this afternoon,” Felicity inquired, taking a sip of her tea. She crinkled her long nose and set the mug on the table between the two chairs with a clack.

 _Stop at Sainsbury for supplies right away._ “Yes, indeed I am,” Demelza replied, hoping her voice sounded convincing. She willed her hands to stay still around her mug.

“As first classes go, I would say it went fairly well,” Felicity observed, “aside from the disruption at the top of it.” She arched a look at her teacup. “This really isn’t to my taste. Might I have some water?”

“Oh, yes,” Demelza blurted, surging up from her seat, “of course.” She went to the mini-fridge, pulling a bottle of water she’d placed in there from lunch and poured half its contents into a glass.

Felicity pursed her lips. “Thank you.” The department head flipped through her notes. “I trust you’ve made arrangements to have Mr Poldark come to your office to answer for his tardiness.”

The mere sound of his name made her stomach jump. _Get it together._ “I-I didn’t have the chance to catch him before he left,” Demelza explained. “B-But I’ve looked up his information and will send him a message for an appointment.”

“Good,” Felicity replied, her eyes trained on her clipboard. Demelza ducked her head, flipping up the cover of her laptop, thankful her head of department didn’t notice the flare of colour she knew had warmed her cheeks and neck at the mere prospect of contacting Ross. “Mr Poldark shows quite a bit of promise when he puts his mind to it. But he’s a charmer, Dr Carne.” She sipped her water. “There’s a reason he’s sitting your course this semester. He’s been able to finagle his way out of music history and appreciation through his winks and smiles at some of your esteemed colleagues. He must complete these classes before he can go any further in his course of study.” She sighed. “You will let me know if he gives you any trouble.”

“Trouble?”  Demelza blinked. “What kind of trouble?”

Felicity looked askance. “Repeated incidences of tardiness or absences, late coursework, a lackadaisical attitude, that sort.”

“Of course.” Demelza realised she must work on her poker face if she were to get through the semester with her position intact. “I will indeed.”

“Excellent.” Felicity stood, setting her glass on the table. “I’ll leave you to your work, but first, I understand you will be performing a selection of Debussy for our Wednesday afternoon concerto. I must tell you, his Mazurka is a favourite of mine.”

“Then I’ll be happy to add it to the program,” Demelza offered, gritting her teeth. It only happened to be her least favourite. _Goodbye,_ Clair de Lune. She walked the older woman to the door, flicking the latch free. “Thank you very much, Felicity.”

“You’re welcome, Demelza.” Felicity turned the handle on the door, pulling it open before the person standing before it could knock. “Ah, perfect timing, Mr Poldark.”

~*~*~*~*~

Ross had planned to wait until he’d finished his time in the practice room but had found himself broodily staring at the corner of the small, closet-sized space for a full fifteen minutes before he’d been able to work on a composition he’d been preparing for his fall recital. He had until November to complete it, but he had to get feedback from his pianist, Jim Carter, one of the guys from secondary with whom he played occasionally. Jim had been excused from TC for the first week of the semester due to a death in the family. After Carter returned, Ross would need time to smooth out the rough spots -- and there were many -- so why bother poking on it at all?

So further work had to wait. At least that was the excuse Ross gave himself before packing up his guitar and making his way towards the stairs.

He climbed the steps to the fourth floor of Trelawney Hall, his long legs making short work of the task. He noticed an open sitting area at the top of the stairs where several of his fellow students perched on the tall stools near the bank of windows, their laptops open and plugged in, diligently studying their class notes or leafing through textbooks. All of the professors for the music school had their offices on the fourth floor and the sitting area, known as Ludwig’s Lounge, was a spot where the students could work comfortably without hovering in the hallways for an appointment with their instructor.

Demelza. His instructor for a class he didn’t even want to be in. Hell, he’d been resentful of having to be in the damn class in the first place, doing everything he could to convince Kenneth Pasco, his adviser, to give Ross another pass, or let him challenge for the course. He’d eased up on the pressure once he’d found out Thomas-Tregothan was behind the edict; no sense in making Kenneth’s life hellish. Ross just hoped he could steer clear of the old gargoyle.

He glanced at his syllabus once more and made his way to room four-thirteen, located at the end of the hallway. Several of his fellow students slouched against office doorways or sat cross-legged, their backs hunched over laptops. A couple of them nodded their heads in greeting, stopping to chat with a few when someone called out his name. “Hey, Ross!”

He stopped, spotting the girl who’d sat next to him in Demelza’s class. Her name completely escaped him. “Er, hi there.”

“Jemma,” she smiled, closing her laptop and rising to her feet. “From music history, remember?”

“Yes, hello, Jemma.” He quickly shook her offered hand. “Already getting a crack at your homework, I see.”

“Definitely,” she said eagerly. “I’ve only been in three classes so far, but my cousin told me they like to pile it on here, so I want to stay on top of it.” She really was a nice-looking girl, dressed in full on hipster regalia, from the woollen beanie perched atop her curly blonde hair to the oversized sweater, miniskirt, black tights and Doc Martens on her feet. “Wasn’t Dr Carne’s class great?”

He swallowed. “Yeah, I-I thought it was okay,” he agreed, despite the fact he barely remembered Demelza’s lecture. “Lots of reading to do tonight.”

Jemma laughed, a lovely, tinkling sound. Vocal performance, he was willing to wager. “That’s for certain.” She nodded at the bulletin board. “It will be fun to hear her perform, don’t you think?” He scanned the colourful posters until he saw one with Demelza’s photo. Ross’s mouth went dry. She was wearing a beautiful, Grecian-style, olive-green gown that left her shoulders and arms bare, as sleek as the black Steinway concert grand that shared the image. “‘Afternoon Tea with Debussy.’”

“Huh?” Jemma’s voice jerked Ross’s attention back from a fantasy which had Demelza lying supine, her dress a verdant, silken puddle against the obsidian lacquered instrument, her long legs wrapped around his shoulders as he sampled the sweet cream between her legs. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Dr Carne is the featured performer at this week’s Wednesday afternoon concerto.” Jemma’s fair brow furrowed. “Are you alright, Ross?”

 _Get it together, Poldark_ . “Yeah, I’m just a little preoccupied.” He jerked a shoulder. “I need to speak with her about my lateness today, and I’m not looking forward to it.” _Well, I_ am _, but I’m_ not _._

“Aha,” Jemma nodded. “She seems cool, but I’ll wish you luck, just the same.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that.” He meant it, too, despite the fact it was evident she’d taken a fancy to him. He’d be careful around her. “See you ‘round.” He adjusted the guitar case on his back and started down the hall to face the inevitable. Now, as he prepared to knock on the door of Demelza Carne, DMus, PhD, Truro College, he was growing surer that seeing her again was an inevitability he didn’t _want_ to avoid. If not for this crazy, improbable situation, he knew he’d never have found the woman who’d been captivating his mind since their night in Newquay.

He lifted his fist to knock, the thought of looking into her beautiful eyes causing his pulse to race, only to jerk back when Dr Felicity Thomas-Tregothan filled his view. _Christ._ “Ah, perfect timing, Mr Poldark,” the dour creature crooned, a knowing smile on her face. His luck truly _was_ laughable. “Dr Carne was just about to contact you for an appointment, but it's encouraging to see you taking the initiative.” He stepped back to keep from being mowed over. “I’ll see you for our staff meeting tomorrow morning, Demelza.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Demelza said woodenly before meeting Ross’s eye. “Come in, Mr Poldark.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Demelza stood back, allowing Ross a wide berth to enter the room. His scent filled her nostrils as he passed her and it was just as alluring as she’d remembered. She closed her eyes. _This was going to be impossible._ She shut the door, twisting the lock. “Please, take a seat, Ross,” she said, gesturing towards the two near the window.

“I think I’d rather stand, Dr Carne,” he responded, crossing his arms over his chest.

One didn’t need to be an expert in body language to read the tension coming off of him in waves. "We can dispense with the formalities, now that Dr Thomas-Tregothan is gone. You and I are far too well acquainted to stand on ceremony,” she stated, arching a brow. His head jerked to meet her gaze. A green-gold fire burned under his strong, dark brow. She shrugged, assuming a calmness she didn’t actually feel. “Suit yourself.” His posture changed, eased as she crossed the room to settle in the overstuffed leather armchair recently absented by Dr Thomas-Tregothan. She waved a hand towards the mugs, keeping her eyes focused on her own. “Help yourself to tea, mugs are on the credenza.”

“D-Demelza, listen,” he stammered, setting his guitar case and messenger bag down on the floor. “I’m sorry.” He sat across from her, their knees within inches of each other. “I came in here, almost looking for a fight.”

“Yes, I picked up on that,” she challenged, inexplicably hurt by his admission. He stiffened, and she was glad of it. “Why?”

“Because I’m an ass,” he offered. “A fool who never expected to see you again and now that it’s happened I’m don’t know what do.” He pulled the sunglasses from on top of his head. His hair curtained his face for a moment before he tossed the shades onto the table and, in a single movement, slid an elastic from his wrist and captured the wild locks into a ponytail. It accentuated his strong profile, and she had a sudden desire to run her tongue along his stubbled jawline. She couldn’t help the gasp that left her mouth when he raised his eyes to meet hers. Naked desire was reflected in every line of his face, and she had a difficult time staying in her seat. He stopped, cocking his head. “Well, what I _want_ to do will likely get me slapped.”

Demelza laughed, bloody grateful for the humour he’d inadvertently infused into the situation. “This has been quite the afternoon, Ross,” she admitted, rubbing her temples. “How have you been?”

“A bit busy getting ready for the semester.” He fidgeted, pointing towards the tea kettle. “Do you mind?”

“No, of course not.” He glanced at her mug and took hers with him as he moved towards the credenza. “Thanks.”

He poured tea into both, setting her cup down on the table. “I’ve also wondered how you were,” he murmured, his gaze dark and smouldering. “How you felt when you found me gone.”

Her breath caught. “Ross.” She sat back, frowning as she eyed him cautiously over her glasses. “Honestly.”

“You _did_ ask, Demelza,” he countered, sitting next to her once more.

“True, I did,” she admitted, flicking him with a look. “Fair enough.”

“So?” he said, sipping his tea. “How are _you_?”

She laughed ruefully, shaking her head. “I’ve been alright.” She took the tortoiseshell frames off, slipping them onto the table near his. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more shocked in my life than when I saw you at the top of the auditorium.” The memory of finding that earring in her bed came to the forefront of her mind, and she frowned. “Well, almost.”

His eyes widened. “There’s something that could have topped that?” he asked.

“Nothing I should share with you at present,” she said absently, shaking her head to rid herself of the hurt and plastered a smile she didn’t feel onto her lips. “Suffice it to say, the end result was much more favourable than the other.” That much was true. Time to change the subject. “I recall you mentioned playing at that club. How long have you been playing the guitar?”

He blinked. “Since I was around twelve. I picked up a busted up Gibson at a yard sale for a few quid and fixed it up.”

“Really?” she said, quite impressed. “How did you manage that?”

“You’d be surprised what you can find on YouTube,” he grinned proudly. The tension in the air eased, and she could see some of the tightness in his shoulders relaxed. He took a sip of tea, his eyes watching her over his mug. “I...well, I haven’t seen you here on campus before.”

“Oh.” She shifted in her seat, crossing her legs. She had no idea how much noise her stockings made when she did that, or how arousing the sound could be. Answer the question. “Yes, this is my first year. I finished my doctorate in May.”

He glanced at the framed degrees on her wall. “Doctor of Music and Philosophy. Ambitious.” His smile softened. “I saw a poster in the lounge that mentioned you’re performing this Wednesday afternoon.”

She nodded shyly. “Debussy, one of my favourite composers.”

“The photo of you is lovely,” he observed. His voice was quiet, intimate, so memorable. “I look forward to hearing you play.”

She inclined her head in thanks, uncertain she’d be able to speak the words if she tried. _Danger. Step back, now._ “So, I understand this is your third year?” she asked crisply.

He grinned. “Been checking me out already?”

“Not in the way you mean, or at least the way I think you mean.” She winced. She sounded like a bumbling adolescent. “Alright, maybe a little along those lines.” She took a deep breath, wishing for the earth to open and swallow her whole, embarrassment warring with the almost primal need pulsing through her veins. “Ross, I am wholeheartedly at a loss for words. This has thrown me, completely thrown me.”

“Me, too.” He set his cup down, scrubbing his face with his broad hands. “I’ve been wandering around, rattled, unable to focus on anything other than the fact that you’re here. Right here in front of me.” He leaned forward, reaching for her hand before clearly thinking better of it. “But that wasn’t part of the deal, was it?”

She felt tears of frustration prickle the backs of her eyes. “No,” she mouthed, her voice trapped behind walls of propriety and professionalism, and cleared her throat. “It was supposed to be a once-in-a-lifetime thing, between two strangers, with no regrets or repercussions.” She got up from her seat, pacing the small confines of her office, coming to a halt in front of the floor to ceiling wall of windows overlooking the quad. “Something to look back upon with a wink and a laugh, you know?”

“And now?” His voice was close, and she shifted her focus to see him standing not more than a foot behind her. She fisted her hands at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. She spun to face him, standing tall enough to force her to look up to meet his eyes, even with the four-inch heels on her boots. The full lips that had driven her mad in dreams and in reality were inches away, close enough feel his breath on hers. “What do you want, Demelza?”

Her heart hammered in her ears. “More,” she whispered, reaching for Ross as the walls crumbled around her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm evil. But you should know that about me by now...I've learned from the best -- thank you rainpuddle13 for everything and thanks to all of you who have left me kudos and comments and have shared the story with your friends...I really appreciate the support!


	7. tremolando

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _story title definition: a note or notes that precede the first full bar; a pickup_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Demelza Carne is a week away from starting her new career as a professor of music history and theory at Truro College, excited to begin a new stage in her life, devoid of the philandering ex-husband who broke her heart. And it is her heart her friend Caroline is worried about.
> 
> Well, perhaps not worried. And maybe not Demelza's heart. The night of her big 3-0, Demelza spots a tall, dark-haired man who can't take his eyes off of her during a pub crawl in Newquay. Chat leads to snogs leads to a night of passion Demelza never experienced before. In the morning, he is gone and all she knows is his first name: Ross. Throughout the week, she cannot get him out of her mind. His hands, his mouth, his body, simply...him. She looks for him and finds glimpses of him in the people and things she encounters: the luxuriant black curls of her regular barista; the eyes of a black cat belonging to her neighbour. Yet, she never finds him.
> 
> Until he walks into her lecture hall.
> 
> A modern Romelza AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title definition: zitternd (Ger.); Italian, literally ‘trembling.’

They crushed one another in an embrace, as if drawn by sheer magnetism, by need, by the ache that she’d managed to ignore for over a week. She moaned, bruising lips with their fervour, their tongues tangling and sampling well-remembered tastes. The tea so reminiscent of the brew they’d shared in the wee hours of the morning, when jam first, cream second had taken on an entirely new meaning. The mint he must have had before coming to her room, reminding her of the first time they’d kissed when she’d discovered one in his mouth the first time her tongue whisked the inside of his cheek. Her breasts ached for his touch, for the rough pinch of his fingertips on her nipples, the warmth of his palms against her flesh. As if he’d heard her, one of his hands tugged her shirt from her skirt, and she shivered despite the calloused heat of his skin against her back.

His free arm circled her waist, his fingers biting into the flesh of her hip as he drew her tight against his body. His cock – rigid, insistent – notched against the mound at the apex of her thighs. “Demelza,” he growled into her mouth, grinding his hips against hers. Mindlessly, she arched against him in time with his thrusts, moaning into his mouth as his hand slid under the waistband of her skirt. A tip of his finger traced the lacy edge of her thong as it descended along the cleft of her buttocks.

And as quickly as she’d cast her reason to the four winds did it return with all the violence and noise of a sudden summer squall. “Ross, no,” she whimpered against his lips. Her hands pressed against his chest, pushing him away before she could change her mind. “We cannot do this.”

“What?” he asked dazedly, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. “What’s the matter?”

She forced herself to step beyond his grasp, placing her desk between the two of them while she pressed the back of her hand against her mouth. She’d come within a hair’s breadth of sending the career she’d spent the last ten years working towards sailing out of the window, and she’d begun to shake from what? Adrenaline? Fear? Rampant desire? All three? He must have noticed because he approached her, worry etched upon his face. “Ross, please. I need a little distance.” He stood stock still, his hands tucked inside of his pockets as she took several deep breaths to gather her thoughts. In time, she raised her eyes to meet his. “Ross, as much as I may want this to happen, it’s simply cannot be done given the situation we find ourselves in here at the college.”

He flattened his palm against his groin, gasping with what she assumed was discomfort. _You’re wasn’t the only one_ , she thought to herself, crossing her arms over her breasts. Her nipples prickled with needle-like pain as they returned to their normal state. “Well, why the hell not?” he squawked.

“Are you serious?” she asked incredulously. “I am your _instructor_ , Ross! I hold a position of authority over any student I teach, and that is especially true when it comes to you!”

She shuffled through a file on her desk until she withdrew college’s code of ethics. “I want you to read page…” She flipped through the brochure, her normally dexterous fingers miserably uncoordinated until she landed on the section she sought. “Page thirty-one.” She handed the glossy publication to him and crossed to the window, staring out at the quad while he read near the lamp.

“‘ _It is expected that we will not engage in consensual relations with a student or another employee if we are in a position to influence the academic or employment activities of the individual,_ ’” he read aloud. Dusk had fallen during their time together.  She could see his reflection in the window, his dark, winged brows furrowing, creating such interesting shadows on his face. He met her gaze. “So, there’s an ‘expectation’ that nothing will happen. Is that all?”

She whirled to face him. “There’s an entire bloody _policy_ against student-teacher consensual relationships, Ross!” She stalked back to her desk, digging around until she found her contract. “Sit down,” she commanded, pointing at the couch. He complied, the immediacy of which, under other circumstances, would have been a massive turn-on, but she slammed the door shut on those musings. She slid on her glasses and settled in the armchair. “‘ _Truro College is committed to maintaining learning and work environments free from conflict of interest, exploitation, or favouritism,_ ’” she read in her best instructor’s voice. She glanced up, scowling at Ross’s sinful angel’s face. She crossed her legs and continued with emphasis. “‘ _Employees, whether faculty or staff,_ shall not engage in consensual relations with students whenever the employee has a ‘position of authority’ with respect to the student in any context _, including but not limited to teaching, advising, training, providing recommendations for, evaluating, supervising, mentoring, or in the context of any student employment situation regardless of full or part-time status, for example as part of laboratory or other graduate assistant responsibilities, as part of clinical service or learning, or in the context of supervised graduate student teaching activities._ ’” She dropped the contract into her lap and folded her hands atop it. “Now, I challenge you to find a loophole _anywhere_ within that statement.”

“May I see that, please?” he asked, holding out his hand. Demelza blinked, hesitating a moment before she gave it to him. He read through the page, and the one following, heaving a sigh when he reached the end of the section. “No, I think they’ve covered pretty much everything.” He gestured along the margin. “Your initials?”

“Yes,” she confirmed, taking the document from him, “acknowledging my agreement to abide by this policy and all of my other obligations to the college.”

“There must be a way out of this, Demelza,” he growled, rising to his feet and pacing the room. She realised he truly resembled the big black cat she’d seen at her neighbour’s, and quickly stuffed the whimsical – and yet stirring -- image deep into the recesses of her mind. “I mean, I can sign a waiver, or agreement, you know, not to sue or whatever.” He stopped, his face lighting up with an apparent brainwave. “I’ll withdraw from your class!”

“Oh, Ross.” Demelza tilted her glasses onto her head and covered her face with her hands. “You do that, and Dr Thomas-Tregothan would have both our heads.” She leaned back in the chair, peering over her fingers. “Mine, for being the instigator of your decision-making and yours for dropping one of the two classes you have been mandated to take before you move forward with your degree -- yes, I know about that, too, Ro---

“Shit,” he interrupted, his eyes widening with shock. “Couldn’t wait to give you all the dirt, couldn’t she?”

“You are one of my students, Ross! If she hadn’t told me, it’s all documented in your academic record!” she tossed back.

He scowled at her and resumed his pacing. “Well, I’ll…I’ll…” he stammered, fingers diving into his wild hair and giving his head a scratch. “I’ll take it with Professor Gabriel!” he exclaimed, coming to a halt, a self-satisfied grin creasing his right cheek. “I mean, he’s one of the most boring lecturers alive, and I may have to juggle my schedule at work around, give up a few shifts, maybe, but hell.” He walked back to the couch, sitting close to her chair and captured her hand. “It would be worth it if it meant I could see you again.” He pressed his lips to her palm, sending waves of heat from her hand throughout her body. “If I could be with you again.”

“Ross,” she said throatily before catching herself and pulled her hand free from his grasp. The grin spread across the rest of his face, and she huffed out a breath. “Honestly, Ross, even if you were to change instructors, the situation remains the same. I am still a teacher at this college!” It was her turn to pace the room, praying that by doing so she could expel some of the wild need coursing through her veins. “Who knows how our paths might cross, even if you transferred to Gabriel’s class. There’s still the possibility -- no, an almost certain probability -- that I would work with you in any of the other capacities noted in that contract.” She sighed sadly. “Maybe not as part of your lab work, or as a mentor, but when it comes time for you to perform your final for composition? I’m on the review committee. And when you _have_ to take Intro to Music Theory? Gabriel is on sabbatical next term, so I’m teaching the only course in the spring.”

He was silent for a time before he surged to his feet. “Fuck it.” He looked mutinous. “I’ll quit. I’ll leave school.” Her mouth fell open at his words. “I’ve been thinking about it for months now. If performing is what I want to do, then I should be out there.” He gestured out the window. “Busting my chops in clubs, paying my dues, performing for live audiences instead of a host of professors -- no offence,” he added sharply. “Who needs a goddamn degree to do that?”

“Ross, I will not be the party responsible for your abandoning your academic career!” she declared. She was filled with a mixture of dread, fury and abject longing for this passionate, young man and the lengths to which he proposed to go to have her once again. It was nearly irresistible, but she had to put an end to the madness. “You will not place that burden upon me; I won’t allow it. I guarantee, there would never be hope in hell of any future with me if you quit your schooling.” She glowered at him, trading stubborn look for stubborn look. “I mean it.” He’d gone from defiant, youthful exuberance to dejection in a thrice and her heart ached to see it. “It’s impossible.”

“Demelza,” he murmured, his hand cupping her cheek. The calluses he’d developed on the fingertips of his left hand whispered along her cheekbone. The battle for supremacy between heart and head made her close her eyes.

Her head won, and she took a step back, out of arm’s reach. “It’s impossible,” she repeated, her voice a whisper as it caught in her throat.

It was the hitch that caused Ross’s shoulders to sag. “There’s nothing that can be done?”

She shook her head and moved to stand near her desk. “I think you should leave now.” She hazarded a glance at his face, now shadowed with sorrow and frustration. Tears threatened, and she knew they would be of no use, not with him in the room. “Please, Ross,” she said brokenly. Her resistance was in its death throes and, for both their sakes; she had to get him out.

He heaved a sigh and gave her a curt nod. “As you wish, Dr Carne.” It was like a stab to her heart to hear him say her name in such an icy, impersonal manner. She dashed the tear that slipped from her eye when he bent to pick up his messenger bag and guitar. He stood, his eyes hooded. “I will be sure to arrive to class on time on Wednesday.”

And, with that, he was gone.

~*~*~*~*~

“SHIT!”

The sound of Ross’s roar and the reverberating crash the palms of his hands made against the exit door’s push bar caused a string quartet practising in the atrium to add their scratching dissonance to the moment. “Jesus, mate,” the gangly cellist barked at his retreating back, only to be flipped the bird.

Ross stormed down the steps in front of Trelawney Hall. He was, in a word, furious. He hadn’t been this angry since his cousin Francis had wrecked the patched together Triumph motorcycle they’d spend half a year rebuilding when they were seventeen. It hadn’t been much of a hardship on Francis; he’d got an MG for his birthday a month before. For Ross, however, the bike was to be his primary mode of transportation and had forced him to rely on the First Kernow buses for another year. He was never one to appreciate being boxed into a corner, but to wind up in his present situation because of an effing policy did nothing but make the prospect of continuing his education as palatable as vomit.

Never in a million years would Demelza believe him if he told her he’d been thinking of quitting since he’d finished last June when he’d hooked up with a couple of blokes to play in a few clubs on open mike nights. Not after the performance he’d just made in her office.  _Especially_ not after she’d taken any hope of his ever seeing her -- the fiery creature whom he’d spent the best twelve hours of his life a little more than a week before not the bespectacled instructor who’d sub-sectioned and by-law’ed him to death -- again if he dared to quit.

What was hell was he talking about? The bespectacled instructor thing? If the rock-hard state of his dick was any indication, he knew the image of Demelza in her tortoiseshell specs and prim teacher togs would make a recurring appearance in his fantasies for some time to come. He’d had such hope when she’d melted into his arms, kissing him with an abandon that had made his knees weak. The satin of her skin, the hiss of her breath whistling against his cheek, the scrape of her nails against his scalp. And when she’d arched against him, the pressure of her pubis against him and the realisation her sweetness was a zipper and thong away from his reach, his mouth and his cock was nearly enough to make him come on the spot.

Adrenaline fizzled out as quickly as it had transpired. He stopped, sucking the crisp, autumn night’s air into lungs that needed oxygen to send to his angry, fevered brain. Spotting a nearby bench, he shambled over to ease himself down, his bag and guitar at his feet.

He was meant to perform, had known it since he restored his Gibson. When he’d mentioned it earlier, Demelza’s look of surprise and admiration had done strange things to his gut. Ross remembered his mother had been quite musical, playing the old piano they’d had in the parlour for as long as he’d been alive, and singing whenever she’d had the chance. He must have got his talent from her because his father couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. Joshua Poldark had grumbled about the noise at all hours, but he’d never demanded his son stop experimenting with music, never insisted he focus his studies on subjects that would be better suited for farming. The reason had become clear the spring before Ross finished secondary.

The stroke that had paralysed Joshua’s left side had occurred sometime during the night, leaving him unattended for hours before he’d been rushed to hospital. The next few months had passed in a blur. Ross’s uncle, Charles, had been named financial and healthcare power of attorney. It had taken a month to stabilise Joshua’s condition, at which point arrangements for more permanent housing had to be made. After he’d been settled at Kenwyn, the care home they’d found for Joshua, set on the outskirts of Truro, Charles Poldark announced one of the stipulations in Joshua’s living will had specified an allocation of funds for two purposes: first, the tuition and fees for Ross to attend college.

Ross remembered gaping at both of the elder Poldarks, utterly floored by the news. He didn’t need college to make his start in the music business! He’d said as much during a visit with his father.

_“College?” he barked. “Da, you know I’ve been all but counting the days until I was done with school to go out and perform. I don’t need a degree to do that!”_

_“I never went,” Joshua said simply. “You will go.” Given the limitations on his movements, Ross’s father had made remarkable progress with his speech and occupational therapy, regaining his ability for rudimentary speech within two months, so he was not one to keep his opinions to himself._

_Much to his son’s chagrin. Ross threw up his hands. “But, Da---”_

_“---No,” he interrupted. How his father managed to look as truculent and demanding with half his face as blank as a newly blocked canvas had been beyond Ross’s comprehension. “Your ma went. I never went. She wanted you to go. You will go.”_

_“Oh, low blow, Da,” Ross grumbled, this being one of his late mother’s wishes feeling particularly weighty on his shoulders. Well, two could play the stubborn card. “Fine,” he quipped, “if I go, and I’m not saying I will, I’ll not study business, or-or agricultural studies or medicine or anything like that.” He crossed his arms. “It’ll be music or nothing, Da.”_

_His right corner of his father’s mouth tipped up into a smile. “Fine with me, son.”_

_Bluff called. Ross sat down on the window seat with a thump and turned helpless eyes towards his uncle. “Charles, there's no money for this! Don't tell me you're putting it up because I'll not take it.”_

_“Heavens no, boy,” his uncle coughed. “Both of you are too stubborn ever to ask me for a penny." He sighed. "Joshua, it’s time to tell him.”_

_“Tell me what?”_

_Charles frowned when Joshua failed to respond. “All right, I’ll tell him.” He turned to Ross. “Your father has been pursued by some land developers who’ve promised a handsome return for Nampara.”._

_Ross felt the blood seep from his face. Nampara, the property that had been on his side of the family for generations. The only home he’d ever known. He met his father’s steel grey eyes. “You’re selling Nampara?”_

_His father nodded. “I won’t live there again. You’ve never shown an interest. It makes sense.”_

_“Ross, all save the five acres surrounding the farmhouse and outbuildings, were sold earlier today,” Charles informed him. “The final total was more than two million pounds.”_

_“W-What?” Ross gasped. He whirled onto his father. “When were you intending on telling me about this scheme?”_

_“Once it was done,” his father said. “It will pay for school.”_

_“The money has been set into a trust, to be utilised for your father’s care until the day he dies,” Charles continued. “The doctors believe he stands an excellent chance of living for another ten years.”_

_“If I last that long,” Joshua grumbled. He nudged the supper tray in front of him. “Two million quid should get me better food, I reckon.”_

_Charles rolled his eyes. “If your father should pass before the funds are depleted, whatever is left will remain in trust, to be distributed to you on your thirtieth birthday.”_

_Ross felt shell-shocked. He stared at the elder Poldarks. “And I’ve no say in any of this?”_

_“’Course not, boy,” Charles chortled. “You’re only seventeen, and the property belonged to your father. Are you saying you wish to farm it?”_

_“No, of course not!” Ross blurted. His father was right about that -- he had no desire to be a farmer for the rest of his life. “But…where am I to go?”_

_“The farmhouse is yours -- or, rather -- will be yours upon your father’s passing, although it is in need of serious repairs,” Charles observed. “Money has been allocated to cover those costs. The contractors will start when you go off to school.”_

_“You need a proper guitar for school, don’t you?” Joshua asked. “Charles, see to it he gets what he needs.”_

The second purpose of the money had been revealed: a new, classical guitar, the one Ross had been dreaming about, never thinking he’d ever had the chance to play one, let alone own one. How could he have said no?

Then and now, his life forced along paths, neither of his making and he powerless to do anything about it. As much as he desired Demelza -- and he wanted her like air to a drowning man -- it meant placing her career in jeopardy. He wasn’t stupid: her response was not that of a person demonstrating a vague or casual interest in him. Ross knew if not for the steely force of will she’d had up her spine, they would still be in her office, christening every inch of the place with their sweat.

A fleeting image of her, bent over her desk, skirt up and him, balls deep inside her tight heat made him groan. Fortunately, at that precise moment, his mobile rang in his coat pocket. It was Dwight. “Hey, man,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes.

“You sound weird, mate,” Dwight observed. “Rough start to your first day in class?”

Ross looked up into the window on the fourth floor of Trelawney Hall, where he could see her shadow moving back and forth behind the sheers she’d pulled shut and then cast his eyes heavenward. “You have no effing idea.”

“Damn,” Dwight murmured. “Where are you?"

"In the quad outside the music building. You?"

"Just finished my chem lab," Dwight said with a yawn. "Sorry, mate. Wanna grab something to eat, maybe a coffee?”

“That might do for you. I need something much stronger.” Ross gathered his belongings. “Meet you at Bunters in ten minutes.” He took one last glance at her window and headed to the parking lot.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think I was going to go the easy route, now did you? Nope. More to come soon, I promise! 
> 
> Thanks to everyone supporting this work...I'm glad you're enjoying it!


	8. acciaccatura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _definition: a note or notes that precede the first full bar; a pickup_
> 
>  
> 
> Demelza Carne is a week away from starting her new career as a professor of music history and theory at Truro College, excited to begin a new stage in her life, devoid of the philandering ex-husband who broke her heart. And it is her heart her friend Caroline is worried about.
> 
> Well, perhaps not worried. And maybe not Demelza's heart. The night of her big 3-0, Demelza spots a tall, dark-haired man who can't take his eyes off of her during a pub crawl in Newquay. Chat leads to snogs leads to a night of passion Demelza never experienced before. In the morning, he is gone and all she knows is his first name: Ross. Throughout the week, she cannot get him out of her mind. His hands, his mouth, his body, simply...him. She looks for him and finds glimpses of him in the people and things she encounters: the luxuriant black curls of her regular barista; the eyes of a black cat belonging to her neighbour. Yet, she never finds him.
> 
> Until he walks into her lecture hall.
> 
> A Modern Romelza AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _acciaccatura: Crushing (i.e. a very fast grace note that is "crushed" against the note that follows and takes up no value in the measure)_

 

Two days later, Ross leaned against the wall opposite Trelawney room 202, brooding behind the wraparound sunglasses he’d propped on his nose. Yes, it was daylight, and yes, the floor to ceiling windows illuminated the hallway with one of autumn’s few remaining sunny afternoons. But unless he’d just come from having his eyes dilated at the optometrist’s he had no call to glower over the quizzical glances he received from his fellow students. Despite how ridiculous he knew he must look, it did an excellent job of walling himself off from the world of Truro College, even if only for a few minutes.

It was his first day back since receiving the shock of his life and been sent off -- tail tucked between his legs -- to fall into a vat of Bunter’s best pale ale. Perhaps not a vat, but enough of the stuff to get him blind, stinking pissed. Not soon enough to forget the look of shock that had crossed Dwight’s features before the laughter had begun.

_“Very funny,” Ross growled, narrowing his eyes at the pre-med genius who all but toppled off his barstool._

_“‘Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine…’” Dwight mangled in an attempted imitation of Humphrey Bogart. “Or, rather, you walked into hers!”_

_His best friend cackled and mopped tears from his eyes. “Fuck off,” Ross muttered with little heat and pounded the last of his pint._

_Dwight patted Ross’s shoulder. “You know if the situation were reversed---"_

_“—yeah, yeah, I’d point and laugh at you just as hard.” Ross gestured to the bartender for another round. He’d worry about where the money was coming from for this indulgence later. “Still, it’s like fate’s kicked me square in the bollocks, mate. I mean, I never expected to see her again, that’s the God’s honest truth.” He took another gulp of beer. “She’s older than me, and rich besides, so there are two reasons we wouldn’t run in the same circles.” He paused for a moment, repeating the moment he’d seen her in his classroom, the whirl of emotions that had struck him like a punch to the gut. “But the fantasy of running into her and picking up where we left off was always there, lurking in the back of my mind.”_

_“I’d argue it was closer to the front and centre,” Dwight countered, waggling his eyebrows. “I’ve noticed how your head seemed to spin about on your neck every time we passed a redhead all last week.” The broad smile faded from one of teasing to commiseration. “I can’t even begin to know what this must be like for you, Ross.”_

The truth was Ross wouldn’t wish how he felt to his worst enemy. He thought about exactly who that would be, a twat named George Warleggan, and pursed his lips. Maybe I would. _Minus the mind-blowing sex._

They’d stayed until almost one o’clock Tuesday morning. Dwight had shoved Ross into an Uber and sent him home to wallow in an excess of hops and barley until the sun crept through his window. The hangover had been bad enough to justify skiving off the day’s classes for the first time in his three years at TC. Or, at least that was his excuse not to go to the campus where he’d known she’d be, somewhere in the building where he’d spent most of his time. And as he lazed about his puny flat, garbed in an old terry cloth robe and slurping Pot Noodles, he’d come to the conclusion that there wasn’t enough booze on earth to shake her from his mind.

The few, fleeting moments when she’d been back in his arms, pressed against his body had been an answer to prayer, the fantasy made flesh and blood, once more. But it was more than that. The fear that had flashed in her eyes when she’d recognized what they’d done, who they were to one another, away from the Headlands and back in the real world. The concern when he’d told her he would quit school. The determination and the certainty she’d had in her decision, despite the heat that had simmered in her sapphire eyes when he’d kissed her palm.

His body stirred at the memories dancing through his brain and he gently banged the back of his head against the wall. _Reminiscing about Demelza Carne, PhD just before her class was not the brightest thing for you to do right now, idiot,_ he thought to himself. He’d have to go in and face her, if for no other reason than to prove to himself he could.

He slid the sunglasses up on top of his head and pressed off the wall. Right into Jemma Owen. “Oh!” she exclaimed, juggling her books in her arms.

“Shit.” Ross’s hand shot out, clasping her upper arm to steady her. “I’m sorry, I should watch where I’m going.”

“I-It’s okay, thanks,” she stammered. She glanced at him, and he noticed the color of her eyes for the first time. While all he’d had on his mind of late was a certain redheaded professor, Ross couldn’t help but notice how striking the deep walnut brown was with her sunny blonde hair. Her cheeks bloomed a rosy pink and he released her arm. “This is my friend Stan Griffiths. Stan? Ross Poldark.”

Ross tilted his chin up in greeting. Stan was short, stick thin with violet hair, shaved on either side of his head, and several piercings on his ears. “Nice ink, man,” he commented. Stan had a sick Celtic knot design tattoo covering the left side of his skull. “That must’ve hurt.”

“A bit,” Stan chuckled, his laugh and voice higher than Ross would have thought. “Still deciding if I’ll get the other side done.”

“Cool,” Ross said. “Would love the name of your artist.” He was happy with the work Prudie Paynter had done on his arm, but he was always keeping his eyes open for other options, especially if their attention to detail was as good as whomever was responsible for Stan’s. “Listen, class is gonna start in a minute. Get the details to Jemma?”

“Sure,” Stan agreed. “Nice to meet you! See you later, Jem.” He slid his earbuds back in and bopped his way down the hall.

“Here, let me.” Ross held the door open for Jemmy; it was the least he could do since he’d tried to send her sprawling only moments ago. “How do you know Stan?”

“He’s from my village, near Cardiff,” Jemma said, flickering another look up at Ross. “General studies right now, but I think he’s going to go into the sciences.”

“Really?” Ross felt his eyebrows climb up into his hairline. “I thought he was in the music program, for sure.”

“He gets that a lot,” Jemma laughed. “He’s a genius when it comes to stuff like that.” She gestured at a couple of seats in the middle of the room. “What about here?”

No hiding in the corners. Ross swallowed. Might as well make this a _truly_ immersive experience. “Sure.”

They made their way to their seats and were opening laptops when the door near the auditorium stage opened. Demelza entered the classroom, and he drank her in despite his best intentions. It would have been hard not to, with her trim figure in a deep, navy-blue sweater dress with a vibrant scarf the color sof the sea and sky arranged around her shoulders, a gold clasp pinning it into place. Her hair was tied back into a simple ponytail, showing off her graceful neck.

“---the reading?”

Ross jerked his head around towards Jemma, who was giving him an assessing look. It wouldn’t surprise him if he’d had drool on his chin. “What did you say?”

“I asked if you’d made it through the reading?” she offered once more.

“Oh, yes,” he lied. He’d only been able to manage the first chapter last night. “Still need to do the quizzes.”

“You’ll do fine, I’m sure of it,” Jemma said. “How about the essay?”

 _Essay? What essay? Jesus, Poldark, get your shit together._ “Yep, sure did.” He tapped his laptop, glad when she turned her head to chatter with the girl sitting on right. He scrabbled in his bag for the course syllabus, which was wedged in the corner, and surreptitiously smoothed it out to read the assignment.

_One page essay on why you are studying music. Submit using online template in the grade book._

_Fuck, fuck, fuck!_ How was he going to wheedle his way around this? He scrubbed a hand over his face and looked up to find Demelza staring at him, her smoldering eyes barely hooded by her lashes. He went hard in an instant and wondered if he would ever reach a point where he could look at her and not want to crush her in his arms and kiss the breath out of her. He blinked hard, meeting her gaze once more. She had a quizzical quirk to her brow, as if she were wondering what was wrong. He gave her a grim smile, set his bag on the floor and flipped up the cover of his laptop. He only wished it were large enough to hide behind.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Demelza said in a voice that carried to the far corners of the room, silencing the din of activity. “I trust everyone managed to complete the reading and assignments for today’s class?” She gave the briefest of pauses before plunging ahead. She was confidence personified, moving through the discussion points from the reading (for he _was_ able to follow along for the first chapter) and managed to make what could have been a tedious subject quite interesting. Perhaps he’d better take the time to get caught up on the reading so that he could have something to think about other than how crazy the teacher made him feel simply by breathing.

“Now, we have about five minutes left, and I’d like to tap into your essays a bit,” she said. “”We’re going to do a very fast round robin where you will shout out a three word phrase that sums up your answer to the question ‘Why are you studying music?’.” A buzz of excited chatter filled the air. “I’ll give you two minutes to think of your answer, and then we’ll take off from there. Just one more rule: if you hear someone else say what you intended to share, you must sit down.” She glanced at her watch. “Ready and go!”

He realized he’d have no difficulty writing one page essay about the subject, except he might find it difficult to limit himself to a single page! Why wouldn’t he read music? It was as much a part of him as the blood in his veins, and he couldn’t conceive of studying anything else. But how to boil all of what compelled him to become a musician, and one composing for jazz guitar for that matter, into three words?

He thought back to one of the first songs he’d ever written, back when he’d been a lad of fifteen. He’d had his heart broken by the first girl he’d ever liked. He’d wanted to talk to someone, but his father had been nowhere to be found, a common occurrence since the death of his wife, Grace Poldark. In that moment, Ross had found he desperately wished he could talk to his mother, to pour out his anguish whilst being wrapped in her loving embrace. Instead, he’d grabbed his guitar and headed to the beach, where the tune had come to life. He’d named it after her, _Grace_ , and it had given him more comfort than he’d imagined. When his father found him playing it a few days later, Ross shared what had happened. “There’s a string of notes that repeats in it,” Joshua had said, contemplatively. “It’s part of a lullaby your mother would sing to you when you were a baby.” So, even though Ross hadn’t been able to speak with the late Grace Poldark, something of her voice had spoken to him, just when he’d needed it most.

And he had his answer.

“Alright, everyone, we will start at the back of the room and work our way around,” she explained. “On your marks, get set and go!” Ross’s fellow students leapt into the action without hesitation. All kinds of answers sailed through the air surrounding him: “Because I must!” “To be famous!” “Self-expression rules!” They moved faster and faster, with classmates taking seats right and left. Finally, Ross looked around and discovered he was the last person standing. He grinned broadly at Demelza, the background tumult of their situation silenced for a moment, and he was pleased to receive an answering smile from her. “Mr Poldark, you are our last person standing,” she remarked.  “What three words sum up your reason for studying music?”

He took a deep breath. “For my mum.”  Her look of surprise and intrigue, of a desire to hear more from him sent the presence of his classmates into the ether, leaving him alone with the woman he craved. His need to tell her -- now, this instant -- made his heart stutter in his chest.

The bell rang, and the moment was gone.

 

“Okay, I’m dying to read your essay,” Jemma trilled as they walked up the stairs towards the exit. Ross gave her a wordless, one-shoulder shrug. That would never happen. He’d share that unwritten essay with no one but Demelza. He remained shaken by that single moment, bound by the curiosity in her crystal-blue eyes. “You enjoy being mysterious, don’t you, Mr Poldark?”

He arched a brow. “Sometimes.”

“So,” Jemma crooned, the word drawing them to a halt near the door. “Are you going to go to Dr Carne’s concerto this afternoon?”

“Shit,” he sighed, smacking his forehead. He’d forgotten all about it. Or had he? Life was too complicated these days and his motivations were mired in a bog on the moor.

“Oh, you should come!” Jemma exclaimed, practically bouncing on her toes of her Chuck T’s. “She my advisor and I think she’s brilliant. I mean, wasn’t that class amazing?”

Ross nodded, admitting he’d never had a classroom exercise like the one they’d just experienced before, surprised by the amount the energy it had brought to a room filled with attention-span deficient students after ninety minutes of music _history_. “It was pretty cool. But I dunno,” he hedged. Maybe he should consider surviving a class with Demelza without the desire to run out into traffic or beat off in the toilets to be a good, first step towards normalcy. Seeing her perform might just be a bridge too far.

“I can save you a seat,” Jemma offered. The pink blush spread across her cheeks once more and Ross wondered if it were possible for a person to be shy and assertive at the same time. Jemma Owen was a very interesting combination of the two. “Three o’clock in the Bassett Auditorium.”

He glanced over the top of her head and down towards the podium. Demelza was slowly packing her things up, absently, her attention clearly fixed upon the conversation he was having with the pretty co-ed in his company. Ross bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “We’ll see,” he said, sliding his shades back onto his nose.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The door at the back of the auditorium clicked shut. Demelza set down her notes and settled back on the stool near the podium, massaging the dull ache that had taken residence near her temple. “What are you doing, Carne,” she hissed aloud, glancing back up to the last place she’d seen Ross. This was the second time she’d seen him speaking with Jemma Owen, a very pretty first year from Cardiff and one of the five students Felicity Tregothan-Thomas had assigned to Demelza for advisory services. She’d only had the chance to meet with Jemma for a session once so far, and had found her to be enthusiastic and driven, with a happy disposition and strong desire to please. She was also wildly talented. Her audition video had featured Jemma performing “Habanera” from “Carmen”, which had received unanimous approval by the review committee. Demelza had noticed the two of them the first moment she’d entered her classroom that afternoon. They were both beautiful young people, chatting amiably as they’d settled in for class.

Demelza stood up and paced. Who was she kidding? The girl had formed an attraction to Ross – one would have to have been blind not to see it – but what hadn’t been clear was whether the interest was reciprocated. In that moment, Demelza had experienced a moment of jealousy and possessiveness that had straightened her spine and sent her pulse through the roof. It had only been two days since they’d been in each other’s arms, kissing like long-lost lovers, the only thing keeping them from screwing in her office was the sliver of reason she’d clung to, a life ring in a tumultuous sea. Could he be so easily diverted by the first pretty girl that crossed his path after that? Of course he could, he was twenty years old, that’s how they’re wired, for fuck’s sake. She was the adult in this situation, the one who _had_ to be reasonable, for so many reasons.

Just when she’d been capable of marshalling some level of control over the inappropriate emotions clamoring throughout her mind and body, she’d caught his eyes. They’d roiled with a storm of emotions, his continued desire for her chief among them. They’d made her tremble, and Demelza had found she needed a moment to compartmentalize the heat his gaze had set alight within her, to will herself to remain unaffected by him, the memory of his body, his passion and all it had brought her.

Even now, as she paced circles around the podium, her nipples tightened and a moan escaped her lips. “For the love of God, Carne, get it together.” She snapped her bag shut and stormed out of the room towards the atrium.

As she climbed the four flights of stairs to her office, she shelved The Situation with Ross in favor of focusing on the actual class she’d taught and felt the tension in her shoulders ease appreciably. The students had been completely engaged, the discussions of the chapter materials demonstrated they’d followed her instructions and completed their assignments. She was eager to read and score the work, to learn more about her students and their motivations but could not do so until after the concerto she was scheduled to give in a little more than an hour. She hurried down the hallway, unlocked her office and dropped her things on the couch so she could begin her warm-ups.

Demelza loved performing and would have felt petulant if it had been anything else keeping her from grading coursework. She hadn’t had a chance to play for an audience for almost two months, which was longer than she’d gone between events since starting her doctorate. That would change with her employment at Truro College. It was part of her employment contract to perform a minimum of three times per semester at the college, two fundraisers held by private organizations or donors as well participating in the annual gala the college hosted at Christmas. Ray Penvenan, Caroline’s uncle and Demelza’s agent, managed her bookings, but Demelza relied mainly on word of mouth to get to her about a need which she would then turn over into Ray’s capable hands to hammer out the details.

She spent half of her time running scales to loosen her fingers, particularly important as she was playing Debussy’s _Arabesque No. 1_ to start the concert. It was one of her favorites, filled with floating arpeggios that required delicacy and a lightness of hand. She then ran through the trickier parts of the Mazurka, before gathering her sheet music into its performance binder. One last glance in the mirror to freshen her makeup and she was out the door.

 _Would Ross be there?_ she wondered to herself as the lift took her to the ground floor. Did she _want_ him to be there was the better question to ask herself as the chatter from the auditorium grew louder. One of the things they’d shared that night was a common love of music, the subject coming up when she’d changed the playlist before they’d had their after-midnight snack, and in the quiet moments after they’d made love. Against her better judgment, she discovered she wanted Ross to hear her play, as much as she looked forward to seeing him perform his end-of-semester composition. On that occasion, she would just have to remember she would be listening as a panelist, not as the woman hungering for him.

She took a deep breath, casting her cares aside, and entered the backstage door.

~*~*~*~*~

Ross slinked into the auditorium behind a clump of undergrads, hoping to dodge Jemma’s sharp eyes. He knew she would be looking out for him and, when it came right down to it, he wanted to experience the first time hearing Demelza perform by himself. No such luck, of course. She’d spotted him within seconds. “Ross!” she called, waving. He nodded hello, groaning inwardly when he’d seen where she was, third row center, proudly displaying the seat she’d saved. He made his way down the aisle and eased into the seat just as the house lights dimmed and Dr Tregothan-Thomas took the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are pleased to have one of our newest faculty members join us for our first Wednesday afternoon concerto. A native of Cornwall, Dr Demelza Carne comes to us with a Doctor of Philosophy and Masters of Music in Performance and Composition from the Royal College of Music, London. She has performed across Great Britain and the continent since beginning her formal studies as an undergraduate of Oxford University. She will perform a collection of pieces written by Claude Debussy, one of the most influential composers of impressionist music. Please welcome to the stage Dr Demelza Carne.” Enthusiastic applause filled the auditorium as Demelza stepped onto the stage.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. The fiery hair spilling down her back, the vibrant sea-greens and teal of the scarf around her shoulders and the deep blue of her dress were reflected in her changeable eyes. She was luminous under the stage lights, pausing to smile, bow and search the crowd, despite the brightness of the stage lights, before sliding onto the bench of the auditorium’s beautiful concert grand piano. “Thank you very much for your lovely reception,” she said, her warm voice miked to fill the room. “Debussy’s view of a musical arabesque was that of a line curved in accordance with nature, and with his music he mirrored the celebrations of shapes in nature made by the Art Nouveau artists of the time. Of the arabesque in baroque music, he wrote: ‘that was the age of the ‘wonderful arabesque' when music was subject to the laws of beauty inscribed in the movements of Nature herself.’ So I am pleased to present the first from _Deux arabesques_ , by Claude Debussy.”

 

Ninety minutes later, the house lights came up and the crowd began to filter out of the hall. Ross started when he felt Jemma touch his arm. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“Wasn’t she amazing?” she squeaked, her enthusiasm fading into concern as she peered up into his face. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ross responded distractedly. He felt like he was about to explode and needed room to breathe. Now. “Listen, Jemma, it was a lot to take in. I need a little space, you know? ”

She nodded. “Totally understand. We can catch up in a day or two, if you like.”

“That’d be great, thanks.” He picked up his bag, gave her and Stan a wave and took the stairs two at a time towards the exit.

He took in a lungful of the crisp, evening air the instant he stepped outdoors and meandered his way down the steps towards the quad. He’d hadn’t known what to expect when he’d sat down to listen to Demelza play, but he’d never would have guessed it would affect him as much as it had. Which surprised him, since he was very well aware of what she could do to him with the slightest of glances. She’d filled the room with the most beautiful music Ross had ever heard. Each piece was well selected, providing the opportunity to demonstrate her considerable virtuosity, but it was the emotion she infused into each piece that elevated the music to the sublime, and took hold of the heart. Delicate arpeggios countered with spirited dance, her nimble fingers had woven magic through the air. Her last piece, _Claire de Lune_ , had been his favorite: delicate, elegant notes filled with the deepest longing which had made it hard to breathe. In the end, he realized he shouldn’t have been so surprised: the woman he’d met in Newquay had been every ounce as passionate and graceful as her music had been.

He hummed a section of one of the pieces she’d played, the fallen leaves crunching under his feet as he wandered through campus, lost in his thoughts for nearly an hour. Soon enough, he slowly made his way to the car park. He didn’t have class the next day, which would give him time to get caught up on his work, but rather than cloistering in his flat, he decided he’d go out to Nampara. The cottage was under renovation and he’d promised his father to go out to the property periodically to check on the progress. The second floor had been completely gutted the last time Ross had been out and there’d been no running water. Who knew what he’d find when he went out, but he had a good sleeping bag and camp light in his truck. He’d make do with the rest.

And it would get him out of Truro. He’d been honest with Jemma. He needed space.

The light footfalls of a woman in heels drew his attention to the right and he froze when he saw who it was. Demelza stood stock still, not more than twenty feet from him, a soft grey wrap around her shoulders. She’d stopped her progress as well, eyes widened in surprise. _Speak, you twat,_ he thought to himself. “Evening, Dr C---”

“---Ross,” she interrupted before shaking her head. “No, you’re right, we probably shouldn’t confuse matters any more than they are now.” She paused. “Good evening, Mr Poldark.” They continued on their respective paths until they met at the entrance to the multi-level car park. “I am looking forward to reading your essay. The answer you gave in class was very intriguing.”

Damn. “D-Dr Carne, I didn’t finish the assignment from Monday,” he admitted, keeping his eyes on the ground, the toes of her short gold heels just in frame. “It, well…”

“It was quite a day,” she offered. He looked up, surprised to hear a touch of humour amidst the sympathy in her voice. “It was, you have to admit, one for the record books, yes?”

“True dat,” he said absently. Her eyebrows shot up towards her hairline and they both laughed. He rubbed the back of his neck and grinned. “I don’t have class tomorrow so I promise I’ll get it in by noon. Will that be alright?”

“I review classwork in alphabetical order by last name.” She pursed her lips as she pressed the button for the lift. “I don’t imagine I’ll reach the P’s until my afternoon office hours. You’ll lose no points if everything is there by that time.” She arched a brow. “Reasonable?”

“Oh yes, absolutely,” he agreed, happily. “Thank you.” They stood awkwardly in silence as the gears overhead clattered until he could bear it no longer. “I heard you perform today.”

Demelza blinked several times, her eyes more grey than blue in the shadowy alcove. “You did?” she breathed. Her expression on her face was priceless. God, he would have given everything he owned to kiss her, especially when she bit her bottom lip like that. “W-What did you think?"

The door slid open and they stepped inside.“I thought it was glorious,” he stated truthfully. Her hand paused over the third floor button. He was on the fifth, so time was of the essence, if he wished to tell her what he’d truly thought. “I’ve heard his work before, but never like that.”

She blushed, a smile trembling on her lips. “Thank you, very much.”

“There were several moments in the _Sarabande_ , that cadence a few measures into the piece?” He waited until she’d met his eyes again. “It’s meant for a jazz adaptation.”

She beamed. “I’ve had the same thought every time I’ve played it!” She chattered about her ideas, glowing with excitement. It was the kind he’d seen so often in the people he’d played with, whenever he and Jim were in the practice pods, working on a new collaboration. Suddenly, he could picture the two of them, Demelza at the piano, him on a stool near her, improvising on themes and passages together. It made his heart shake painfully in his chest.

Their eyes met, and the memory of another lift ride with her filled his mind. He’d tasted her skin in the lift at the Headlands less than a fortnight before, and she’d ground against him, breathy, anguished moans of delight leaving her throat like an aria. “Demelza.” Her eyes had darkened, turned as dark as midnight and dropped to stare at his mouth. One step and his arms were around her, his mouth upon hers, drawing her in. Her gasp evolved to a sigh of yearning as she parted her lips, her tongue caressing his. He quaked as she melted against him, her arms around his back, her nails biting into his shoulders. He released her mouth, tracing kisses along her jaw to her throat, breathing in her scent, so good, like citrus and musk, vanilla and Demelza. She rose on her tiptoes, pressing closer when the doors of the lift slid open, the three bells marking the floor number discordant, and the very last thing he wanted to hear.

“No!” She extricated herself from his embrace, covering the mouth with the back of her hand and darted past him.

“Demelza, wait a second!” he called, bracing his arm against the closing doors. He broke into a run, catching up to her as she stood, trembling, next to a sleek Aston Martin the same color as her dress. He cupped her elbow. “Baby, pl---”

“---Don’t,” she stated, whirling to face him, her purse falling and scattering its contents across the pavement. She thust a hand out to land, hard, in the center his chest. “Don’t call me ‘baby’. I am _not_ your ‘baby’. If anything, shouldn’t _that_ particular ‘endearment’ be mine to use for _you_?”

Her words were like a slap in the face, knocking him back a pace. “I-I’m sorry.”

“Do you think this has been easy for me?” She knelt, scrabbling on her hands and knees after her belongings. “I tell myself I am the adult and am capable of having a professional, teacher-student conversation with you, but then, at the slightest provocation, find myself climbing you like a goddamn tree!”

He joined the search, stunned by her words. They searched in silence for what felt like days until he had to speak. “D-Demelza,” he stammered, offering an eyeglass case and keys he’d found near the rear tyre. “I’m sorry, I really am--”

“--I know you’re sorry, Ross,” she snapped, picking up a comb and rising to her feet. “We’re both sorry when it happens. We swear not to indulge in this...this… folly again, only to fail miserably at the first challenge.” She picked up a small mirror which had cracked when it tumbled from her bag and swore. “I told you, risking my livelihood for a quick fuck against my car will _never_ be in the cards for us, do you understand? This... _thing_ between us _will not_ continue!” She threw her purse into the passenger seat. “If it means I have to demand _never_ to be anywhere alone with you again then that’s what will happen. Do you understand me?”

He nodded dumbly. She was staggeringly beautiful in her rage, despite the pain she leveled at him with every single word falling from her lips. She slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. “Will you be alright to drive?” he rasped.

She growled, low in her throat. “Just leave me alone, dammit!” she yelled, jamming her finger on the ignition start button.

“Yes, right away.” He stood, helplessness hollowing his stomach, making it ache. “I’m sorry, Demelza.”  She fired back into reverse within seconds, missing him by inches. Their eyes met for one, last moment before she roared down the pavement, the squealing of the tyres reverberating against the concrete.

~*~*~*~*~

Demelza maintained the tenuous grip on her composure for a mile before she manoevered her car onto a dark, tree-lined lane, flung open the door and was violently, violently ill.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The information Demelza shares about Debussy's First Arabesque was taken from here
> 
> Sometimes, one must scorch the earth to start afresh. Thanks for your support. It is gratefully appreciated.


	9. cambiare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _definition: a note or notes that precede the first full bar; a pickup_
> 
>  
> 
> Demelza Carne is a week away from starting her new career as a professor of music history and theory at Truro College, excited to begin a new stage in her life, devoid of the philandering ex-husband who broke her heart. And it is her heart her friend Caroline is worried about.
> 
> Well, perhaps not worried. And maybe not Demelza's heart. The night of her big 3-0, Demelza spots a tall, dark-haired man who can't take his eyes off of her during a pub crawl in Newquay. Chat leads to snogs leads to a night of passion Demelza never experienced before. In the morning, he is gone and all she knows is his first name: Ross. Throughout the week, she cannot get him out of her mind. His hands, his mouth, his body, simply...him. She looks for him and finds glimpses of him in the people and things she encounters: the luxuriant black curls of her regular barista; the eyes of a black cat belonging to her neighbour. Yet, she never finds him.
> 
> Until he walks into her lecture hall.
> 
> A Modern Romelza AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _chapter title definition: cambiare -- to change_

It was almost ten o’clock by the time Demelza pulled into the gate of Wadebridge Cottage near St Kew, the home she’d won in the divorce. Her tyres crunched along the gravel as she eased the car down the curving drive leading to the garage. She sipped the lukewarm tea she’d purchased at the Starbucks a few streets away from where she’d been ill. She’d hoped the dark interior of the car would have been murky enough to conceal. No such luck. “Is there anything else I can do for you, miss?” the young woman asked hesitantly, her eyes roving over Demelza’s tear-ravaged face. She shook her head, but was soon grateful for the extra napkins the barista included with her drink.

The purr of the engine echoed in the stone building that had once been home to the stables and doused the lights. She leaned back against the plush, heated leather seat and wept silent tears  of the bereft, tears which she’d dared not show him. Not if she meant what she’d said.

And she did, she told herself. She’d meant every single word she’d said because she’d had to. No simple agreements or bargains would be sufficient to keep her from succumbing to the connection that existed between she and Ross. It didn’t matter that they’d only known one another for such an abbreviated moment in time. Something elemental had been born that  night, something that had required she scorch the space between them to bring it to a halt.

All the logic in the world did nothing to salve the raw wound that was her heart. She hiccuped and blew her nose, wincing at the roughness of the napkin against her sore nostrils, and decided she’d be best served by a hot bath, two fingers of whiskey, and her bed. She got out of the car and was immediately greeted by a chorus of raucous barking. A tremulous smile curved the corners of her lips. “Garrick.” She knelt, dropping her bag to the floor and gathered the dog into her embrace. He wiggled and licked her salty cheeks and she felt the chill on her heart start to fade.

Demelza loved the two-year-old Irish terrier mix that had come courtesy of her younger brother. Sam returned home from a mission trip to Romania the year before and promptly adopted a six-month-old puppy from a shelter. He’d come close to declining his spot at Birmingham’s Queen’s Foundation for theological studies because of the “no pets” policy for full time residential students. Demelza happily agreed to foster the dog until Sam could find an affordable place off campus.  

That had been nine months ago. Possession was nine tenths of the law, and if Demelza had anything to say about it, her brother would just have to find another dog.

“Yes, my love,” she murmured in his scruffy neck, “it has been a shit day. How about we go in the house, pile into bed and eat a quart of ice cream?”

  


“So, you’re going to stay at home and lick your wounds all day?” Caroline drawled over speakerphone.

“No,” Demelza muttered through a yawn. She was smoothing lotion over her skin following the near-scalding shower she’d taken. It may have been a partial punishment for the way she’d treated Ross the night before, but it had done wonders towards making her feel like a human again, rather than the bleary-eyed wreck she’d met in the mirror twenty minutes before. “I’ve no classes today, nor do I hold office hours so I can get a head start on marking the students’ work.” She arched a brow at her mobile. “That way, I can spend the weekends doing what I want, which usually involves doing something with you, so I’ll have no more of that tone from you, slag.”

“Touche, love,” Caroline laughed before she sighed. “I’m sorry I didn’t get your message until this morning. I left my charger at home and the fucking thing was as dead as a doornail by the time I reached the hotel.” She was in Scotland on a buying trip for her boutique. “You did the right thing, you know.”

What?” Demelza said, “roasting the poor boy on a spit?”

“Call it what you will, but you know it was the only thing to be done,” Caroline stated. “Listen, I’ve got to wreak havoc with Matthew over these ridiculous throw pillows he’s attempting to sell me. I mean, who in God’s name wants wool pillowcases that still smell like a goddamn sheep? ‘Organic’ does not mean dispense with a wash with some soap, dammit.” Demelza smiled for the first time that morning. “We’ll have breakfast at my place on Saturday, yes?”

“It’s a date,” Demelza said. “Thanks for calling.” She hung up her mobile, padded naked over to one of the chests of drawers in her room and pulled out a soft pair of leggings and her favourite long sleeved t-shirts. It always paid to be dressed when working from home: one never knew when they’d receive a Skype call. Besides, it was only suitable if she’d showered and dressed as if she were heading to the college. It certainly wasn’t because it gave one the excuse to shuffle about in one’s pyjamas, feeling like hammered dog shite over a verbal altercation. Because one did not feel this way over a one night stand, especially if one was a thirty-year-old divorcee.

The truth of the matter was she’d barely manage to catch any restful sleep during the night, her mind replaying the scene -- and there was no other word for it _but_ “scene” -- with Ross. She’d lashed out at him as if she’d been a cornered animal governed by fight or flight. _Smooth move, lizard brain_ , she glowered at herself as she brushed her teeth. “Well,” she said, slapping her toothbrush down on the counter. “Time to shelve the primary school histrionics, pull up your big girl panties and do what you’re being paid to do.”

The shower had helped somewhat, but her head still throbbed with a low grade headache. Nothing that a couple of paracetamol and a large cup of coffee wouldn’t cure. Her slippered feet whispered along the hardwoods that covered the hallway leading to the bright, airy kitchen that sat at the center of the house. Garrick’s nails clicked on the tiles as he danced near the french doors leading to the back garden. “Alright, you,” she murmured, opening the door, “off you go.” He bounded across the yard to the area where she’d trained him to go when the time came to tend to his business and fired up her laptop. Soon, music filled the room from the inset speakers and the scent of dark, rich coffee tickled her nostrils. Ten minutes later, both she and the dog were fed and she settled down in her Eames armchair near the pellet stove to check on her classwork.

She ran through the homework she’d set for the week, perusing the names of the students who’d returned their work, some on time, others not at all, but her eyes widened when she saw Ross’s name amidst the latecomers. When she clicked on his name, she discovered he’d completed all of the outstanding items that had been due yesterday! “When on earth did you do all this?” she wondered aloud, her fingers itching to tap open his first quiz. He must have been up most of the night, and she pictured him lit by his computer screen, the blue-white light washing out his olive skin and turning it a ghostly grey. She caught herself before her eyes drifted shut to spin out the rest of her imaginings, frustration making her grit her teeth. No, she had to stop leaning towards her impulses, especially when it came to that particular young man. She returned to the main screen, sorted the completed assignments in order of receipt and got to work.

Demelza was impressed with the general knowledge base of her classes, and her introduction to western music history students were no exception. There were several shining stars, including two sisters who were in their second year as well as Jemma Owens, one of her advisory students. _And the girl who fancies Ross_ , a voice hissed from the back of her mind. She shook her head and, as if in defiance of the mean-spirited imp living in her conscious, gave Jemma full marks on her paper.

Demelza worked through the end of the “on-time” list, took a break to go out and play with Garrick. The fresh air did wonders for her headache and spirits, enough so that she meandered her way to the greenhouse and picked fresh salad greens for her lunch. She spent ninety minutes at the piano, practicing Beethoven’s Sonata N° 17, referred to as “The Storm”, enjoying the shifts in tone, the complexity of the runs and the way she could always picture a storm off St Agnes Head whenever she played it.

Her phone rang as the final notes drifted through the air of the music room and she smiled when she saw it was the other Penvenen on the line. “Hello, Ray,” she offered in greeting.

“Hello, Demelza, my dear.” She could picture the beaming smile on his face and the twinkle in his eye. She loved Caroline’s uncle as if he were her own. “Was going to leave you a voicemail, but this is even better!”

“Now you’ve got me intrigued,” she grinned, adding tea to her favourite china pot.

“I’ve got a potential booking for you on Boxing Day, just in time to fulfill your contract requiring two fundraisers per semester with the college.”

She blinked. “T-That’s amazing, Ray!” she said, very surprised by the news. They’d only sorted out the details for an event supporting one of the local animal shelters happening in a few weeks’ time. “I figured we’d have a search on our hands to find one before the end of the year!”

“Well, we happened to stumble into some luck with this one,” Ray said. She could hear him flipping through papers on his desk and smiled. Caroline was still losing the battle for technological supremacy between her uncle and the iMac she’d surprised him with three months before. “This would be an event at a private home -- a sizable one, but private -- for the Ainslie MacNeil Breast Cancer Association. They’ve been around for years, but this is only the fifth year they’ve hosted a dinner, auction, and concert fundraiser, so they are still finding their feet. One of your former classmates, Keegan Rhys was scheduled to perform, but has had a family emergency come up in Australia, so he will be out of the country for the rest of the year.”

“I just saw an email from him about his parent’s passing,” Demelza frowned. They’d been more acquaintances than friends, but she’d remembered him as being gregarious and very well skilled at the cello. “The client will be fine with the switch from strings to piano?”

“Indeed,” Ray said. “His mother and namesake for the charity, Ainslie, played the piano most of her life, so he was thrilled to learn of your skills. He’s recently moved to the area from the Scottish lowlands. I’ll share all of the details once we’ve got him to sign on the dotted line.”

They chatted for a few more moments before she bade him farewell and stared at her closed laptop. She knew she was stalling, putting off the inevitable, so she made her way back to the sun room and opened the late submissions.  Five more students were bundled in the group, with Ross’s being last. She warred with herself, staying true to her “open in order” discipline and managed to make it through the first four before she clicked on his. Once there, she couldn’t help but go straight to his essay:

 

> R Poldark 1
> 
> MUS 101  
> Carne
> 
> Why Music?
> 
> It started with my mother. Some of my earliest memories in life involve hearing her voice lifted in song, be it the joyous chorus of a favourite Christmas carol, or the soft murmur of a lullaby that sent me off to sleep. It was the latter that started my love affair with the creation of new music, but I didn’t know it at the time….

Her eyes followed the rest of the story, of the great losses in his life, then his first heartbreak and the song that had been borne from it. Her throat tightened, reflecting upon the passionate young man whom she knew she’d hurt with her words and her actions, actions she’d be hard pressed not to repeat if the opportunity ever arose. And would he write a song about their experience? Would it be filled with fire and ice, chaos and confusion? The clashing of their two worlds with no way out that didn’t require great sacrifice in the end? She had to admit there were all kinds of possibilities there, fate having brought the two of them together for a night of passion she’d never known only to throw them back into contact, the rules of society and the college constructing a thick, sturdy wall between them.

What was that saying: “Fate is a cruel mistress”? she mused unhappily. She tapped open her search engine and typed in the phrase and came upon a quote from some guy named Frank Elliott. “ _A mistress is understood to be desired but hazardous to health (if discovered as such). Because death is inevitable, and virtually all extramarital affairs lead to unhappy outcomes, the phrase “fate is a cruel mistress” suggests that fate as an inevitable influence is not only hazardous, but can be oblivious to the feelings of those it affects._ ” Ouch. Demelza glared at the page. “I don’t know who you are, Frank Elliott, but get out of my head.” Because what he’d said was true: fate was playing fast and loose with she and Ross, presenting hazardous circumstances and being sadistically oblivious to their emotions.

She defiantly finished grading his papers, doing her best not to be impressed by his intellect, in addition to being witty, a good dancer, musician, and a god in the sack...Would every week be the same, where she would have to battle her way past her emotions in order to fairly evaluate his work, good, bad or otherwise? “Oh, fuck you, Mistress Fate,” she muttered to herself, and slapped down the lid of her laptop. Maybe it would be better if he were to transfer to Gabriel’s class? She knew she was in no shape to cogitate through that at the moment. She was tired, her eyes burning from all of the computing she’d done for the day, so she stoked up the fire, and curled up on the couch to see if she could manage a short nap.

Soothing, classic oldies filled the air and the warmth of the fire relaxed her muscles. Her descent into sleep’s heady embrace came swiftly, conjuring dreams from the corners of her mind. Moonlight and whispers, seclusion and secrecy, of a man and woman dancing, embracing, moving in time to ethereal music that wrapped them in its embrace.

 _I'm not in love_   
_So don't forget it_   
_It's just a silly phase I'm going through_   
_And just because_   
_I call you up_   
_Don't get me wrong, don't think you've got it made_ _  
I'm not in love, no no, it's because_

Hands brushed her arms, her waist as her lips traveled along the strong column of his neck. The rasp of whiskers against her tongue, lifting the scent of leather, the taste of salt from his skin.

 _I like to see you_   
_But then again_   
_That doesn't mean you mean that much to me_   
_So if I call you_   
_Don't make a fuss_   
_Don't tell your friends about the two of us_ _  
I'm not in love, no no, it's because_

A thumb circled the stiff peak of her breast, an index finger joining to add an edge to the caress, a tweaking pinch that sent white heat to her core. She captured full lips with her own, his satiny tongue seeking hers, emulating what she hoped would come to her soon.

 _I keep your picture_   
_Upon the wall_   
_It hides a nasty stain that's lying there_   
_So don't you ask me_   
_To give it back_   
_I know you know it doesn't mean that much to me_ _  
I'm not in love, no no, it's because_

A rough palm against her buttock, pulling her tight into him, his arousal hard and insistent against her her mound.

 _Ooh you'll wait a long time for me_   
_Ooh you'll wait a long time_   
_Ooh you'll wait a long time for me_ _  
Ooh you'll wait a long time_

Clothing dissolved, against the wall, her knee in the crook of his elbow, drawing her open for his cock. Their dual chorus of gasps and moans. Thrusting, stretching, biting, clawing, while they wept their pleasure to the rafters…

 _I'm not in love_   
_So don't forget it_   
_It's just a silly phase I'm going through_   
_And just because I call you up_   
_Don't get me wrong, don't think you've got it made_   
_I'm not in love_ _  
I'm not in love_

She woke, aching with need, her slender fingers between her legs and trembling on the edge of an orgasm. The trailing notes of 10CC mocked her from the kitchen speakers.

 _No, I can’t be in love._ Fresh tears spilled, just when she’d thought herself finished with them.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Mr Poldark?”

“Hmm?” The woman’s voice nudged Joshua out of a very contented doze. He opened his eyes to find LeAnne, one of the older nurses from his unit at Kenwyn, standing over him. _Pretty little thing._ “Yes, my dear?”

She giggled like a schoolgirl. “Your son is in the day room, waiting to see you.” His boy was good about seeing him fairly often, not like some of the people who lived here. He’d noticed how a couple of the nurse aids would preen whenever Ross appeared, tall, handsome and friendly, at the center. _Just like I used to be_ , Joshua thought to himself with a dry chuckle while LeAnne got him settled in his wheelchair. He was the first to admit he’d been what the old timers would have called a rake, but his world had shattered when his beautiful Grace had died, and no other woman had ever come close to filling the monstrous hole she’d left. The only regret he’d carried from those days had been how much he’d neglected his eldest boy, the one who favoured the woman he’d adored, with her dark, curling hair and hazel eyes. He’d been clawing his way back from the edge when he’d been brought down by the stroke.

Kharma, as the young people said, was a bitch.

A stroke forces a person to change their ways, and Joshua’s free and breezy life of chasing women, drinking, and indulging in a wager or two had come to a crashing halt. Well, the first two, perhaps, but he still managed to sneak in a bet on the ponies once a week through one of the recreational therapists. It had also forced Joshua to face the simple truths before him: first, that he’d never farm again; and second, the most important thing he had left to do was to secure his son’s future. Selling the farm and getting Ross settled into college had killed two birds with one stone, so to speak.

The nurse tucked a blanket around his legs. “Ready?” He nodded. He’d often begrudged the fact he was stuck in a place like this, but he’d had to admit the creature comforts had been welcomed.

Some of the joy he’d had since learning of Ross’s arrival cooled when they rounded the corner and Joshua noticed the forlornness etched in his countenance. “Ross,” he called, and saw the instant his son erected a wall of aloofness he’d so often employed during their interactions. It was another reminder that he still had a long way to go for Ross to truly forgive his neglectful behaviour and should approach the situation with tact.

“Da,” Ross murmured when LeAnne drew his chair close to the window seat where his son had crouched, one long leg, stretched in front of him on the bench. Joshua nodded his thanks to the nurse when she turned to leave them. Ross opened the paper sack next to him. “I brought you some tea,” he said, placing it carefully on Joshua’s tray and opening the lid. The right corner of Joshua’s lip creeped up into a smile. Tea laced with whiskey. “It’ll be cool enough for your straw in a few minutes.”

“Thank you, lad,” Joshua whispered. “How’s school? Never mind,” he stated after his son’s face turned thunderous in seconds. Start with something more innocuous. “What is happening at the farm?”

“Progress of a sort.” Ross made a face. “Finished the update to the sewage and plumbing and have the second floor framed.”

“When will they be finished?” Joshua asked, testing the tea and finding it cool. He sighed as the brew eased down his throat and made his blood hum in his veins.

“Next spring,” Ross said tonelessly. “Da, what would you do if I quit school?”

 _That_ made Joshua’s right brow travel up his forehead. “What’dyousay?”

“I know you said you wanted me to go, but what if it’s not what I want anymore?”

Joshua goggled. The lad’s eyes burned with an intensity his Grace’s would do, whenever she was in a temper. Thinking of her made him sit up straighter. “Why in the hell would you leave now? You’ve only got a year left!”

Ross surged to his feet and paced. “I…I’ve just got different priorities now,” he muttered.

The time to pull punches was over. “I’d be disappointed as hell in you, if you want the truth,” Joshua said, “not that I’ve done anything to make you consider my opinions worth a damn.”

“Oh, don’t try the guilt trip with me, Da,” Ross snapped. “It won’t work.”

“Let me guess,” Joshua said flippantly, his temper simmering, “got your head turned by a pretty piece of tail, did you?”

His son froze, his hands clenching into fists. “You wouldn’t understand, you miserable old man.” Ross grabbed his jacket. “You could _never_ understand.”

Something in his son’s voice snared Joshua by the heart. “Son, please,” he said, reaching to clasp Ross’s hand as he walked by. “Look at me.” A harrowing sadness had darkened the hazel green eyes until they were as black as the deepest forests Joshua had seen in Gloucestershire. “What has happened?”

~*~*~*~*~

His father made him crazy, sometimes. Ross frequently found himself balanced precariously on a tightrope of emotions when it came to Joshua Poldark: resentment for all the times he’d gone days without seeing the man all the while wishing for the kind of connection a son craves to have with his father. Ross hadn’t planned to divulge the turmoil making him surly and unpredictable, but there was something about the way his dad had said “Son” that had snuck through a chink in Ross’s armour, and the bravado he’d carried into the center all but fizzled away. He sat heavily on the window seat and cradled his face in his hands.

“Ross,” his father’s hand tightened around his. He had the hands of a man who’d known hard, manual labour through most of his lifetime, but the skin had grown paper-thin since his stroke.

“I know I’ve a long way to go for us to become as close as we should be. Maybe you can think of me as the old bloke from your favourite pub, who's always got a tale or two to share.” He gave Ross a half smile. “Or an ear you can bend with your woes.” He glanced out the window. “It’s a nice day out, son. How about you push me out to the courtyard? I reckon a bit of fresh air would do both of us good.” Ross sighed heavily, shrugged into his jacket and got to his feet.

It was a little colder than he’d remembered it being upon his arrival. “Is that blanket enough for you?” he asked his father.

“Oh, I’m fine. This jumper is warmer than you think it is,” Joshua said. He fingered the cuff of the cardigan Ross knew was older than him. “Your mum made it for me.”

“She did?” Ross blinked and parked them near the duck pond. He looked closer at the cable knit garment. Its green-gray wool was a near color match for Joshua’s cool eyes, the carvings on the wooden toggle buttons worn smooth from his fingering. It had been the first thing his father would change into after coming in from the fields for as long as Ross could remember. It had also been one of the things his father had demanded his son bring to him the instant he’d regained consciousness after the stroke.

“First Christmas we were married,” Joshua murmured. “But that’s a story for another day. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Ross swallowed. “Well, you weren’t wrong,” he admitted. At Joshua’s quizzical expression, he went on. “I met someone.” He stumbled on words at first, but once he got over his initial embarrassment, Ross found sharing the circumstances with Demelza with his father easier than it had been to confide in Dwight, as weird as that was to believe.

In the end, Joshua rubbed his chin. “You said she’s a few years older than you? By how much?”

Ross felt his cheeks colour. “A little under ten years,” he said softly, frowning when his father shook his head. “What?”

“I met your mum at a dance club,” Joshua grinned.

“What?!”

His father nodded. “Had been out with some mates when one of them suggested we visit this new place in town, and there she was, fresh-faced and just out of undergrad.” The years fell from Joshua Poldark’s face, the look of tender wistfulness when he spoke of the young Grace Vennor. Ross was completely transfixed. “My mate dared me to ask her to dance and the rest, as they say, is history.” He took a sip of his tea. “Had to wait for her, you know.”

Ross goggled. “Why?”

“Her family, for one,” Joshua grumbled. “They thought I was too old for her, that we were too different, me a farmer and her preparing for her post-graduate studies. There were times I had to agree with them.” He paused, apparently lost in his thoughts. “But I had to prove it to them I was the man for her. I wanted to, because of her.” Ross had never heard his father speak of his mother the way he had that day. It provided additional context about the man he’d known in the months following Grace Poldark’s death. Joshua shook his head as if to clear it and patted Ross on the hand. “That’s enough about that, son. Let’s get back to your predicament. Tell me, is it the age difference that’s the problem?”

“No, at least it’s not for me,” Ross sighed heavily and gave his father a side eyed glance. “She’s my teacher.”

It was Joshua’s turn to stare. “That _is_ a predicament.” He absently patted his shirt pocket. Ross knew his father was looking for the cigarettes he was no longer allowed and scowled at their absence. “Is that why you asked me what I’d do if you quit school?”

“Yes,” Ross admitted. “Although I’ve wanted to quit for a while now, so I could focus on starting my music career and performing. But this thing with Demelza’s put a new spin on it.”

“I imagine she’ll have none of you leaving school on her account,” Joshua said with a laugh. “Sounds as stubborn as your mum. I think I’d like to meet your Demelza.”

“She’s not mine, not by a long shot,” Ross murmured. “But seeing her in class, or being alone with her and not…” He blushed, remembering the embrace in the lift the night before that ended with words that all but crushed the breath from his throat. “It’s killing me, Da.”

Joshua’s hand gripped Ross’s tight. “Is there anything you can do about it? Any way you can avoid seeing her as often as you do?”

Ross nodded. “I need to go talk to Verity, first.” He bumped his shoulder against his father’s. “Thanks for listening, Da.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Demelza pulled on the thick, Turkish cotton robe after she stepped from the shower. The laps she’d swum -- which had turned into “dodge-the-splashing-pup” once Garrick decided his mistress was having too much fun without him -- had done more to lift her from her funk than anything else she’d tried. By the time she finished cleaning up after them both it was nearing five o’clock.

She padded to the living room, where she’d left her laptop before her swim, and sat in her favourite, overstuffed couch. She still had work to do, specifically her email, a review of next week’s class plan and  portfolio write-up on her concerto were three things that hovered over her head like the sword of Damocles. She needed a break from Truro College and all that went with it this weekend, and an all-day department meeting scheduled for the next day meant she needed to attend to them now.

She finished the write up fairly quickly, relying on the notes she’d prepared for the event to provide the majority of the final version. She clicked over to her email program and jotted a quick message to Ray, attaching the document for him to add to her portfolio. She scanned through her inbox, deleting junk mail, moving articles to her reading folder and narrowing in on notes from actual human beings.

The first made a worm of dread churn in her belly:

 

> _From: Tregothan-Thomas, Felicity_  
>  _Sent: Thursday, 22 September 2017 11:27  
>  _ _To: Carne, Demelza  
>  Subject: Round Robin_
> 
> _Dr. Carne,_
> 
> _One of my advisory students mentioned you had your MUS 101 students use the new, round robin technique you mentioned to us during your interview and reported it to be a smashing success. Perhaps I was a bit hasty in discounting the idea outright and would invite you to give a ten minute demonstration at tomorrow’s department meeting._
> 
> _I am hearing good things about you, Demelza. Keep up the good work._
> 
> _FTT_

Demelza re-read the email three times before setting her computer onto the coffee table, leaping to her feet and doing a shimmy of success. She knew their excitement over the round robin experiment proved the “newfangled” ideas she’d proposed to Felicity valid. To receive word of her success from the horse’s mouth so soon after trying it? “Score one for the newbie!” she chirped as she danced around the room. Validation, there was nothing like it in the world to raise one’s spirits, and to ensure decisions made were the right ones. She indulged in a final fist pump of success and made her way back to the couch to dive into more.

Ten minutes in, a dialogue box flashed on her screen to announce new mail, this time from the college registrar’s office.

 

> _From: Garrison, Francis_   
>  _Sent: Thursday, 22 September 2017 16:48_   
>  _To: Carne, Demelza  
>  Subject: Notification of Student Transfer_
> 
> _Dr. Carne,_
> 
> _Name: Poldark, Ross_   
>  _Student number 2015_RVP0237_   
>  _Course Number: MUS101_DCarne092017_   
>  _Transfer to: MUS101_SGabriel092017  
>  Justification: change in work hours (verified through employer Verity Blamey, Cornish Catering Company 22/09/2017, attached) _
> 
> _Please transfer all completed coursework to Dr Gabriel within twenty-four (24) hours._
> 
> _Francis Garrison  
>  Registrar, Truro College _

Demelza tried to swallow past the lump that had formed in her throat. _Got your wish, didn’t you?_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate doing this...to them and to you all, but it must be done. Thanks so much for your continued support.


	10. a battuta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _definition: a note or notes that precede the first full bar; a pickup_
> 
>  
> 
> Demelza Carne is a week away from starting her new career as a professor of music history and theory at Truro College, excited to begin a new stage in her life, devoid of the philandering ex-husband who broke her heart. And it is her heart her friend Caroline is worried about.
> 
> Well, perhaps not worried. And maybe not Demelza's heart. The night of her big 3-0, Demelza spots a tall, dark-haired man who can't take his eyes off of her during a pub crawl in Newquay. Chat leads to snogs leads to a night of passion Demelza never experienced before. In the morning, he is gone and all she knows is his first name: Ross. Throughout the week, she cannot get him out of her mind. His hands, his mouth, his body, simply...him. She looks for him and finds glimpses of him in the people and things she encounters: the luxuriant black curls of her regular barista; the eyes of a black cat belonging to her neighbour. Yet, she never finds him.
> 
> Until he walks into her lecture hall.
> 
> A Modern Romelza AU
> 
>  _a battuta:_ Return to normal tempo after a deviation.

“An excellent rehearsal, Miss Owen.” Jemma’s stomach did a small flip at the unexpected praise. Evelyn Lillywhite’s, Truro University’s lead vocal instructor, was known to be stingy in doling out compliments. “We will continue to work on the Arditi, and begin work on the German translation of Schubert’s Ave Maria for your fall final.”

“Thank you, Dr Lillywhite,” Jemma said, settling her music portfolio into her bag. “I’ll see you next week.” She opened the door of the rehearsal room and struck out towards the stairs to the main floor. It was nearing four o’clock and she was meeting some of her friends for drinks at the local pub following a very tiring week of school. She’d worked with Stan to prepare for the chemistry quiz she’d had that morning and still felt as if she’d failed the damn thing. Her other general studies courses had been a struggle, and her excitement to attend her Music 101 class had taken a nosedive after she’d learned of Ross’s transfer.

She’d run into him in the cafe across from campus two weeks before, where he’d explained his reasons for switching to Gabriel’s class. He was a starving student, after all, and an opportunity for extra hours was always welcomed, especially if one was covering one’s own fees.  It wasn’t a problem Jemma faced, having won a scholarship that covered what her parents could not. As it was, she’d told him she’d miss him in Dr Carne’s session. He’d smiled a bit sadly and told her he’d see her around.

It’d looked like he’d been burning the midnight oil, too. He had dark circles under his beautiful eyes and looked as if he hadn’t shaved for days. The latter, Jemma found, proved more attractive than she’d previously thought a bearded man would be.

 _Who are you kidding, Jemma,_ she thought to herself. Ross could wear a paper sack and be smoking hot. She’d been the first to admit she’d had a crush on the man from the instant she’d met him. Not only was he gorgeous, he was in turns funny and mysterious, a combination that drew her like bees to honey. She’d found it hard to believe he wasn’t paired up with someone, and she’d checked, as best she could.

How strange would it be if she were to ask Ross if he’d like to join them? The few nice words from Lillywhite seemed to have been the only positive thing that had happened to Jemma and she was determined to have at least one more boon to take her into the weekend, and drinks with Ross Poldark would be enough to leave her soaring until Sunday evening.

“Right,” she said aloud. “Now to find him.” She bounded up the last flight of stairs and promptly bounced off of his chest. “Shit!”

Ross reached out and caught her arm, hauling her close to his body. Oh lord. “Hey, Jemma.” His deep baritone voice eased around her, warming her cheeks as much as the heat of his palm against her elbow. No sooner than she’d leaned into his touch did he release her. “You know, this is becoming a habit. At least I’m not the one plowing into you.”

She laughed weakly. “Sorry about that,” she apologized, plucking the scarf he’d picked up from the floor from his hand. “Finished for today?”

He nodded. “Yes, thank Christ,” he sighed, scrubbing a hand along his jaw. “Although I’ve got to head home and scrape this off before I go to work.”

“Oh.” The hopeful little bubble in her heart burst with a definitive pop.

He raised his eyes from his phone, where his thumb had been scrolling through email. “What’s that about, Jemma?” he asked, cocking his head inquisitively.

She twisted her fingers in her scarf. “Well, I was going to ask if you wanted to join me, Stan and a couple of others at the pub across campus for a drink.”

“Thanks.” The corner of his lips curved up into a grin. She had to keep herself from sighing. “Wish I could, because I could really use one. Keep me in mind for next time?”

"A-Alright,” she said, her insides doing a happy dance. He nodded, his thumb sliding along the face of his smartphone until he stopped, a frown furrowing his brow. “What’s the matter?”

“I’ve been in lab most of the day and hadn’t checked my email until just now,” he murmured absently before meeting her eyes. “What’s the deal with this message from the provost?”

“Ah,” Jemma said, circling around until she stood by his side, peering at the screen. “Major announcement from the English department. Dr Newhouse had to resign.”

“What?”

She nodded. “Seems he got his teaching assistant, Kim Upton, pregnant!” She leaned close, her eyes following along the message on his screen as he read:

 

 

> TO: Truro College -- All  
>  SENT: Friday, 20 October 2017 11:07  
>  _FROM: Patrick Fitzsimmons  
>  _ SUBJECT: Philip Newhouse
> 
> _Philip Newhouse, dean of the English department, was forced to resign his position after the discovery of an inappropriate relationship with a student. This is a strict violation of the Truro College’s code of conduct prohibiting faculty and staff from engaging “in consensual relations with students whenever the employee has a ‘position of authority’ with respect to the student in any context , including but not limited to teaching, advising, training, providing recommendations for, evaluating, supervising, mentoring, or in the context of any student employment situation regardless of full or part-time status, for example as part of laboratory or other graduate assistant responsibilities, as part of clinical service or learning, or in the context of supervised graduate student teaching activities.” Newhouse was unavailable for comment._
> 
> _Newhouse’s courses will be covered by Jessica Weston, associate dean of English. Contact the Dean of Students with any questions._
> 
> _Sincerely,  
>  _ _Patrick Fitzsimmons  
>  _ _Provost, Truro College_

Jemma grew concerned as some of the colour leached from Ross’s cheeks as he read. “Are you alright?”

He nodded slowly, unconvincingly. “Yeah...yeah, I’m fine.” He stared off across the campus in the direction of the building where the English department was located. “Had a course with Miss Upton last spring. She was really nice.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you knew her.” _So that’s why he looked so strange,_ she considered. Ross may seem brooding and complicated, but she knew he was the type of person to be concerned about others. “Dr Newhouse, though? I mean, he’s her teacher and old enough to be her father!”

He flicked her a glance. “Barely,” Ross scoffed, returning his focus to the article.

“Alright, that might be a stretch,” Jemma said, hoping a little humour would ease the furrow that darkened his brow. “But you have to admit, it was a stupid thing to do, right?”

“I…” He paused, scanning the article again. “I bet there’s more to this than what we’ve got here. Listen, I’ve got to go,” he said in a rush, shoving his phone in his back pocket. “Have fun tonight with your friends.”

“See you next week, Ross,” Jemma said softly as he sailed towards the door.

~*~*~*~*~

Ross ran all the way to the car park. He’d had to get out of there. Jemma’s comments and questions had enveloped him in an airless vacuum that had threatened to strangle him if he’d entertained another word. _He’s her teacher,_ she’d said, her throaty voice dripping with disbelief and disgust. _..It was a stupid thing to do, right?_ Stupid, perhaps. But Ross would give anything for another chance to lie naked and entwined with his own teacher. _Former_ teacher, now, but still off limits, and the price to be paid for such indulgences now in stark black and white for the world to see. He scanned the email from the dean’s office again, remembering when he’d sat in Demelza’s office, searching the code of conduct for loopholes and coming up empty. He still hadn’t found one despite the dozen fevered searches he’d made through the fucking thing over the past three weeks. It was amazing what a desperate mind would do.

He climbed behind the wheel of his transit van and closed the door. The sound of his panting breath echoed in the small cab, the excursion from his run triggering a tickle at the back of his throat that made him cough. It always did whenever he fucked around with cigarettes. He didn’t indulge often, but whenever beer and heartbreak became too much, breaking out a pack of fags was never too far away. He’d managed to stay away from them until Mark Daniel and Paul Martin showed up at his bedsit with a case of Tesco Everyday Value Bitter and women problems of their own. The shite had been rancid, but it did the job, leaving him with a stunning hangover and a mouth that tasted like an ashtray. Ross had had to brush his teeth four times before he felt like normal on Sunday morning. He reached into the pocket of his jacket, fishing out the carton he’d put there over the weekend, crumpled it into a ball and threw it onto the floor on the passenger side. He had the perfect example of what the damn things could wind up doing to him sitting in an old age home twenty minutes away. Damned if he’d end up like that.

He eased the van out onto the road leading towards his flat to tend to his face. He hadn’t shaved in nearly a week, and that simply wouldn’t do at a shift for Cornwall Catering Company, Verity’s pride and joy. The extra hours -- even grunt work around the shop -- had been welcomed, and much more productive than sliding into another pint or twenty of ale. She’d texted him with an offer for a bar tending gig at an evening wedding while he’d been in Gabriel’s Music 102 class and it had taken every lesson in manners he’d ever got from his aunt -- the first Verity in the family -- not to pack up his shit and go, visions of brandy goblets filled with tips dancing in his head.

His mobile chirped in his pocket and he pinched the cord to answer. “Ross, here.”

“Hello, cousin,” a smooth, alto voice responded.

Ross smiled. “Hi, Verity.”

“How far are you from the shop?”

“About fifteen minutes, but I need to go home to shower and shave first,” he said, scrubbing a hand across his jaw. “Unless ‘grubby, hipster, college student chic’ is what’s you’re looking for at tonight’s event.” She chuckled, but not as much as she usually would at one of his quips. “Do you need me to come straight in?”  

“Oh, no, that’s fine.”

She sounded a bit distracted and he told her so. “What gives?”

“We’ve received the contract for next weekend’s alumni dinner dance at the college!” she squeaked.

“What?” Ross blinked. This was huge. Verity had been chasing after a contract to cater one of the TC’s events since opening her place four years before. “How?”

“I’d like to think that they’ve finally come to their senses and decided 3C’s was superlative,” she said airily,  “however, their usual caterer has had a bit of drama come up with the Food Standards Agency.”

He moaned. "How bad could that have been for them to lose this contract?"

"You really don't want to know," she warned. "Anyhow, I need you to go and pick up supplies we’ll need for it.”

“Oh, come on, Ver!” The night’s overflowing tip glass disintegrated in a wisp of fog. “I really need the money I’d pull in at that reception!”

“Yes, rent is due soon, isn’t it?”

“Touche,” he muttered. Damn it, she knew him all too well. His wallet had taken far too many self-indulgent hits of late, and the landlord would be knocking on his door come Sunday morning. The bastard. Couldn’t even wait until later in the day to come calling. “If I can’t have the bar tending gig tonight, could I have the one at the college?”

“Of course,” she agreed, and Ross punched a fist into the air. “If you hadn’t started whinging about things I would have had the chance to tell you the job was yours. And it’s a fundraiser, so I assume the guests’ pockets will be a bit more generous than the wedding reception.” She paused. “It usually takes two weeks to pull off an event of this scale, so we're already woefully behind schedule. It will be all hands on deck for the next seven days to make sure this is done well and we'll be invited back next year.”

"Are you asking me to skive off class for the next few days to pitch in?” he asked with a grin.

“Uncle Joshua would never forgive me if I did,” she murmured.

Ross got the hint. He couldn’t give her every day, but she'd had every other free hour he could to see her succeed. “Sweet,” he said, taking the road to the right that led straight for the shop. “I should be there in five. Thanks, Verity.” He pinched the line closed and popped a couple of mints into his mouth. A few hours of grunt work would definitely keep his mind off of Demelza. He hoped.

~*~*~*~*~

Demelza drained the last of her tea, cold from inattention, and set the cup down with a clatter against its saucer. She’d been so deeply focused upon the first draft of a student’s composition that she hadn’t realised it was nearing six o’clock. It was surprising because only this morning she’d been ready for the week to be over from the instant her hand had swatted the alarm clock into silence. It had been an unexpectedly difficult week, with the approach of midterm examinations around the corner. Students had taken full advantage of the generous office hours she’d established, requesting assistance with their first research papers and assignments. She was thankful for the distraction, especially after news of Newhouse’s resignation swept through campus. Her sadness for her new colleague dissipated within moments of learning the news, replaced by a mix of relief -- because this could have been, would have been her fate if she hadn’t laid down the law with Ross -- and a re-visitation of the loss she’d experienced after he’d dropped her class. It frustrated her, because she never seemed to make any forward progress with the situation, as if fate would laughingly drag her back to the thoughts of the young man who’d captivated her just over a month before.

She cursed softly and reached for her bag when her Skype application began its blooping chirp through her laptop’s speakers. She hit ‘answer’ without looking. “Demelza Carne.”

“Dr Carne, this is Malcolm MacNeil. Is this a good time to talk?”

She looked up at her screen to find the smiling face of Captain Malcolm MacNeil, recently retired from The Royal Highland Fusiliers, 2nd Battalion grinning at her. “Yes, of course, Malcolm,” she said, tossing her glasses on the desk. His deep, masculine voice, with its rich, Scottish burr, made the corner of her lips curve with a smile. She’d met the man at Ray Penvenen’s office the week before. Demelza had been impressed with his wit, charisma, and passion for the work the Ainslie MacNeil Foundation for Breast Cancer Research, as their president and chairman of the Board. “I thought we all agreed to be on a first-name basis when we’d signed the contract for Boxing Day.”

He laughed. “Fair enough, then.” They chatted amiably about the plans for his fundraiser, which would include auctioning off a series of piano lessons taught by her. Twenty minutes into their conversation, Malcolm’s face grew serious.  “Demelza.” He paused a moment, and it gave her the impression he was tasting the syllables on his tongue. “I’ve a question for you. Are you attending the college’s alumni dinner dance tomorrow evening?”

The fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled. “Yes?” she prompted.

“I’ve been asked by the provost to join him at his table and thought it would be delightful to have you accompany me.” He grinned. “Would you allow me to escort you?”

She swallowed hard. This was not what she’d expected, not in the least. While she’d found him to be charming, she’d done everything she could to keep any interest she may have had about him and his foundation as professional as possible. “Malcolm,” she started, “that is very kind of you, bu--”

“---I’m sorry, Demelza. I noticed you were not wearing a wedding ring when we met," he admitted. "It was presumptuous of me to assume you were still available, being such a lovely, companionable woman.”

Disappointment shone in his light blue eyes. “No, no, that’s not it exactly.” Well, then, what was it exactly? She was supposed to go to the event anyway. “It’s only that it’s been awhile since I’ve gone out with someone.” That much was true. One didn’t refer to a one night shag with a total stranger a “date”.

“I understand,” Malcolm said softly. “How about if we agree to just being two new friends attending the same event,” he offered. “We can meet at the college, keep it strictly platonic. It would give us an opportunity to get to know one another better.”

Demelza studied the warm gaze of Malcolm MacNeil and grinned. “That sounds lovely, Malcolm. Thank you.”

“Splendid!” His smile was electric. “Simply splendid, Demelza. I’ll meet you in the ballroom at seven o’clock.”

“See you tomorrow,” Demelza agreed, disconnecting the call shortly thereafter. What did she have to lose?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who has supported this work and thanks for your patience! I've found that much of the time I've spent writing in the past has now been taken up with a happy reconciliation I've had with my sweetie! A good reason, to be true. I'm also happier than I've been in many months, so it's been harder to swim around in the usual angst bucket to which I've grown accustomed! Bear with me, though... we will definitely get there!
> 
> Got the start of the next chapter already underway so here's hoping it won't be so long in coming!


End file.
